poor little rich boy
by finaljoy
Summary: Clint didn't know why he did it. He just did, he screwed up and he made horrible choices over and over and over. And that was fine. Until one day, he realized that he was buying prostitutes and ruining things and lying with his big, bright smiles because he was probably the most messed up person he knew. (au, 'eyes blue' companion)
1. part one

_AN SCREAMING I BEGAN THIS ABOUT A MONTH AGO, AND HERE WE ARE IN ALL OF ITS TERRIBLE GLORY. This is the companion to _**eyes blue like your ice cold heart,**_ and for the sake of spoilers, pleeeeease _**do not read** _until you have read up to chapter fifteen of _**eyes blue. **_Just trust me on this one._

_The title of the story and the lyrics are taken from the song 'Poor Little Rich Boy' by Regina Spektor._

Warnings: Language, mentions and descriptions of prostitution, mentions of and allusions to child abuse

* * *

_(poor little rich boy)_

He didn't know why he did it. Clint knew all the reasons why he _shouldn't_, but he did it anyway. He walked down hooker boulevard, scanned his options, and then just picked one. She, unlike all of the others, seemed supremely bored with the people cat calling and jeering, just because they could. For some reason, he liked that. He also liked her legs, which were on fine display with her incredibly short skirt. Clint wondered how she managed to keep from shivering in the cold.

"Excuse me," he said, the words slipping out of his mouth before he even thought about it. He was catching a prostitute's attention by saying _'excuse me_', amidst the virtual din of the street.

_You're an idiot, Barton,_ he told himself, but she turned around. Her expression was of wary uncertainty, as if she didn't know if she had heard right, or was wondering what the hell he wanted from her, but she was looking at him. She looked tired.

"Uh, yeah?" she asked after half a beat, and he thought he heard an accent. Russian, maybe. The girl asked what he needed, and he hitched up that big, confident feeling everyone said could buy him the world.

"Are you on the job?" She blinked at him, clearly surprised at his question. Sure enough, her answer was already half out before she realized what he had said.

"N-yeah."

"You sure?" he asked, trying not to smile at her slip. She suppressed a scowl, barely, and bit out, "_Yes._"

"Well, alright, then," he said, giving her a pleasant smile.

He led her to the hotel room. Once inside, he shrugged out of his coat and jacket. She watched him, then asked, "Do this often?"

"A few times," he said, because he could be honest with her. About this, at least.

"Me too." He laughed, surprised that she was taking the same tack. He was starting to like her. This woman had some personality, at least.

"What's your name?"

She paused in pulling out her enormous hoop earrings, and gave him a blank, sultry smile.

"Whatever you want, honey."

He gave a self-reprimanding smile, because he should have guessed. She wasn't exactly there for casual chitchat.

"Alright. What's the name your parents gave you? Or the one you go by, which ever."

She gave him an appraising look, then said, "Natasha. What's yours?"

Clint raised an eyebrow at her as he pulled off his shoes. He was a little surprised, he had to admit. She was playing a cheeky game, that as for sure. She knew the strange etiquette of what they were doing, where he demanded whatever he wanted, and she gave everything in a seductive, simpering, compliant fashion. She wasn't supposed to ask things of him.

Her expression was mild, but he noticed how she stopped moving, like she was holding her breath.

"This a new policy I haven't heard about?" he asked, trying to relax her with a joke. She shrugged, brushing off his question with something about being more _proper._ Clint pointedly suppressed his snort and eye roll.

She—_Natasha_—had a lot more spunk than the other girls he usually had. She had been standing in the section for girls with pimps, and he worked to remember whose area she had been standing in. He was fairly certain her attitude was an abnormality.

"You're one of Calvin Hughes', yeah?" he asked. She shifted, looking around the room.

"Yeah, I'm one of the Landlord's."

_I'm one of the Landlord's._ He hated the nickname all of his girls had for the man. It made it sound like the man was just a collector, and they were just things on his shelf. Still, Hughes had a good group of girls, certainly one of the biggest in the area.

Natasha seemed uncomfortable talking about him, so Clint moved on to something a little easier. He leaned against the wall to show that he meant no harm, shrugging as he spoke.

"I heard that he has a good set of girls that handled their own details, but I don't think I really believed it before."

She relaxed ever so slightly, and gave him a teasing smile. There they were, she wasn't so uncomfortable, now. Clint smiled, more at his success than at whatever she said. He liked to win.

He moved a little closer to her, a casual, laid back sort of thing.

"Alrighty, fine. Clint Barton," he said, then teased her by asking if she wanted his social security and PIN. He set his hands on her hips, easy, slow, nothing to make her balk. She refused with a delicious looking smile, and he leaned in a little closer. Clint set his lips just before hers as he spoke, testing himself, seeing how long he could hold out, now that he actually had her in his hands.

"Do I get a last name, to make us even?"

"Romanoff. Natasha Romanoff," she said, and there was that accent again. He opened his mouth, wanting to take the words in and taste them, see how they felt on his tongue.

"Natasha Romanoff?" he said. They were dark and sweet, just like he had expected. He ran his hands up her sides, wondering who would break first; him, from sheer lust, or her, from a cold appraisal of what he wanted. "That's a pretty name."

He could taste her smile as he gave in and kissed her. He knew it felt desperate, hopeless, base, but who was she really to judge? Clint kissed her harder, tasting her own desperation, perched neatly on her tongue, gift wrapped and waiting, just for him.

His hands were in her hair, wrapped tight as he tilted her head back, and kissed her throat. She exhaled, and it sounded like giving in.

He knew she wasn't.

_(all the couples have gone)_

Clint woke up early, with the room still dark.

_You fucking idiot._

He ran a hand over his face. He would have asked what he thought he was doing, but he knew _exactly_ what he had done, and that was the problem. The whole thing had been a very conscious set of decisions on his part, and he just hadn't given a damn about the consequences. That was going to come back and bite him in the ass in a little bit, he was sure.

He needed to get up and go home, and then patch together something to hide his guilt and general self-disgust before Miranda called or dropped by.

Clint glanced at Natasha. She had her back to him, shoulder blades standing out sharply. He reached over to touch her, curious, but held himself back. Touching her now seemed wrong, like his right had expired, now that the sun was more or less up. Plus, he didn't really want to wake her. She had earned the rest.

She shifted, and he pulled his hand back instinctively to keep from brushing her. His hand stayed up for a moment longer, then he told himself to get moving. Clint heaved a sigh, relishing the warmth for a few seconds more before he sat up. The air was cold against his skin, and he grit his teeth. He moved his legs off the bed and leaned over to grab his underwear.

Natasha shivered behind him, and he paused to look at her. He reached back, and tugged the blankets up to her chin.

Clint continued to find and put on his pants. He walked in front of Natasha, examining her in sleep. He had been right earlier. She really did look like she needed the rest.

He turned away from her, muttering to himself about getting a move on, and walked over to his shirt. He pulled it on, and finished getting dressed.

Clint dug around in his pockets for his wallet, and brought out the money for Natasha. He folded the bills up neatly, and set them on the corner of the desk. On a whim, he pulled out the small pad of sticky notes he typically kept in his pocket, and removed the top one. He didn't plan on writing anything on it, he just...wanted to leave it. After he had stuck it to the edge of the mirror, he felt like it belonged there. It was an electric blue, an unexpected splash of color amidst all the beige and dull, faded golds of the room. It showed that he had been there. For half a second, he even allowed himself to think of it as a distinction, to show that he wasn't just another scum bag, rolling through with a hooker, ducking and dodging all responsibility. For half a second, he pretended that he was owning up to his decisions, then that half second was over, and he was headed out the door.

Of course he wasn't owning up to anything. If he was decent enough to do that, he reflected blackly, he never would have bought Natasha's time in the first place.

_(you wish that they hadn't, you don't wanna be alone)_

"Hey, there," Miranda called, making him turn around in his chair. She walked towards him and gave him a kiss, then paused. She looked at the table, then back at him.

"What's this?

"It's a flower, Miranda."

"I know _that,_" she said, looking pleased as she sat down opposite him. Her eyes were on the single rose, sitting in a small glass vase between them. "I meant, what's it for?"

"I just felt like it," he said, shrugging and smiling at her. A rose for a sticky note. Like it would really make up for anything.

She reached out to touch a petal, a soft smile on her face.

"Thank you, Clint," she said, then straightened in her chair. "How's your day been?"

"Good enough," he said, giving a shrug. She raised an eyebrow, not looking up from her menu.

"Are you going to go to the archery range today?" she asked.

"Mm, not sure yet. Depends on how the afternoon goes. If one of my guys decides to be a genuine idiot, then yeah, but otherwise, probably not."

"They're not conspiring to make your life miserable by being idiots," Miranda told him, unable to hide her smirk. He smiled back. He ran his finger around the rim of his glass, a droplet of water sticking to the pad.

"What're you thinking about getting?" Miranda asked, setting her menu down. Clint shrugged, and glanced back over his own menu.

"Mm…maybe just a burger?"

"That sounds good…but ugh, no way, look at the calorie count on that thing," she said, wrinkling her nose. Miranda, though her weight bordered on waifish, religiously counted her calories. Clint didn't honestly care about her weight or how she chose to maintain it, but it made the pre-ordering amble a trial.

"Hm, I think I'll just go with the salad," she sighed, looking more than a little put out at the café's lack of health conscious foods. "Ooh, if you get off early enough, there is a serious possibility that I will be making chicken alfredo tonight."

"Screw archery, then," Clint said, sitting up a little straighter. Miranda had a way with chicken and pasta that was absolutely occult, even if it was low calorie.

Miranda laughed, trying to muffle her too-loud laugh behind a hand. It didn't really work, but Clint didn't mind.

Clint felt guilty, he really did. He didn't even know _why _he'd gone and hired a prostitute, certainly not for the thrill of deceiving his fiancée. Every time he looked into Miranda's small smiles, it felt like she was drop kicking him in the stomach. She had no idea that he had rather go find some whore to screw around with, rather than see her.

_(__poor little rich boy all the couples have gone, have gone, have gone)_

He couldn't say why he'd done it, and he felt guilty, but like always, he kept _doing_ it.

When he called Hughes to make the arrangement, _why do you even still have that you've been engaged to Miranda for months_, it didn't even surprise Clint how casual he sounded. He would have liked to think it was Hughes' easy, friendly Texan accent, but Clint knew better. He just happened to be comfortable, being despicable.

He felt a little awkward, waiting for Natasha. He hadn't ever asked for the same girl twice, and he wasn't quite sure how things were supposed to go. Was he expected to start ripping her clothes off, the moment the door closed? He didn't want to do that. It may have been her job, but Clint didn't want to treat her like a piece of _meat._

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Clint pushed himself up from his chair. He braced himself, opening the door, and then broke into a smile.

"Natasha," he said, holding the door open for her. "Come on in."

She gave him a honeyed smile, and stepped inside. He took her coat to give himself something to do, and complimented her dress. It was dark green, the color making her hair look bright and enticing. Clint tossed her coat on the chair, and leaned against the table.

"So, how've you been?" he asked. Natasha gave him a surprised look. She looked uncomfortable again, so he took the pressure off of her by laughing at himself.

"Right," he said, leaning into her and putting his hands on her hips. "Right, it's considered tacky to talk about other men when you're with a customer."

"Not to mention bad for business. So many jealous types out there, you know?"

Clint laughed, because he loved hearing her play the game. Then she neatly broke the moment by asking for her pay upfront. He smiled and pulled himself back, fishing out his wallet. He handed her the money, and asked if that was enough. Natasha's smile was all the answer he really needed, and then he was pulling her closer.

"Don't worry, Natasha," he whispered into her ear. He felt a thrill when she shivered. "I'm not the jealous type."

He kissed her, taking it slow this time and drinking it all in. He kissed down her neck, feeling her pulse every time his lips made contact. She was holding him like she was afraid to let go. Natasha pulled his shirt out of his pants, and ran her hands up his bare back. He shuddered at that, a soft gasp escaping against her neck.

Clint picked her up and turned around to set her on the table, hand blindly wandering down her leg. Natasha raised her foot so he caught the zipper of her boot, and he quickly undid it. He tossed it away, and moved onto the other one. She grabbed his hair then, turning his face away from her collarbone and towards her mouth. She helped him out of his shirt, he pulled off her bra.

Out of all the things they did that night, out of all the places she had kissed him, or touched him, or whispered out his name, the thing that really stuck with him had come after. They were staring at each other in bed, mostly covered up by the dark and the blankets. Her eyes had a little bit of ice bleeding through her carefully constructed mask. But there was also a little bit of curiosity, as she picked up his hand from her side, and closely examined it. When he told her that the calluses on his fingers were from archery, she had kissed them, like there were something strange, and precious, and should be kept safe.

Clint didn't even let himself dwell on how just how much he enjoyed the idea that he was worth the effort.

_(_and you don't love your girlfriend, you don't love your girlfriend_)_

Clint managed to stay away almost an entire month. He sorted out some problems with a client about wanting to build a monorail that went through a skyscraper, he worked out his archery, he let Miranda tease him when he stayed over at her place and woke up late. Then he came back from a slightly hellacious conference in Germany, and felt like something nice.

He was vaguely exhausted when Natasha knocked on his door, but her smile tasted like honeyed secrets, her dress made her boobs look great, and her time was his, so there wasn't much of a downside.

She seemed to be taunting him when he kissed her, daring him to go a little farther, burn a little brighter. He tried to hoist her onto the table again, but this time Natasha pushed against him, shoving her body against his and making him stagger backwards. Clint couldn't help but laugh as they fell onto the bed, but Natasha was busy straddling his hips and undoing his shirt.

She leaned down to kiss his sternum, then glanced up at him, luring him even farther down her wicked path. Clint wrapped his fingers up in her hair, while his other hand was running along her thigh, hiking up her skirt. He hooked his thumb around top of her panties, intending to pull them off, but she pulled his hand away, smirking as she as went.

"Where's the fun in rushing it?" she asked, moving his hand before her face. She kissed it, dark red lipstick making bruises on his wrist. It wasn't like last time. Now, it was all about the money.

He gave her a lazy smile, and said, "I didn't think you'd be one for foreplay."

Natasha laughed, and kissed his mouth as she undid his pants. She didn't so much as shiver when he unzipped her dress.

For all their talk, Clint knew that Natasha knew that he was only a pace away from being a dead man walking. At some point, she gracefully shifted from their encounter being an involved, two person job, and into her flat out pleasuring him. Not that Clint could actually complain.

By the time they were just lying in bed, he was about ready to pass out. It felt so nice there beside her, to the point where he could almost pretend that he didn't have to get up and slink back to his own home, or have to prep for a presentation with the most finicky buyers on the planet, or have to play twenty questions with Miranda about his time in Germany. Natasha was curled up against his side, demanding nothing more than a mild fee for the night. Her hand was stroking his hair, the movement slow and rhythmic and wonderful, and he smiled at her as he mumbled that he liked it there, and she blinked at him and maybe smiled back…

And then his phone was buzzing on the nightstand, jerking him awake. He hissed in a breath and rolled over, praying that it wouldn't wake Natasha up.

He fumbled with it, trying to read the screen, but it felt like someone had just poured sand in his eyes, and nothing was really making sense. Just getting the phone in his hand was a little miracle.

He stared at it, trying to figure out what the caller ID was telling him. Apparently, it was one of his people from work.

"Hey, Marik, can I get you to hang on a sec?" he whispered, easing out of bed and scrambling for his clothes.

"Yeah, sorry for waking you, Clint, it's just—I think you should know what's up."

"What?" he asked, forgetting himself and straightening, shirt in hand. Clint glanced at Natasha, who was still asleep, and lowered his voice again. "What's happened?"

"It's…well, it's nothing big _yet,_ but Bob's gonna be making a surprise inspection of the Henderson project today, and—"

"_What_?" he snapped again, trying to work into his shoes and ease out the door before he woke Natasha. Bob's inspections were more akin to a mental frisking. Any and all details would be taken, and if a project didn't feel promising enough at the time, Bob had been known to pass it on to someone 'more capable'.

"I know, I know. I told Barbara—she warned me about it—I told Barbara that it didn't make sense for an inspection when you weren't coming in until tomorrow, 'cuz of your late flight, and she totally agreed with me, but Bob's hellbent on it, and you know how he gets."

"Okay," he said, slipping outside, "okay, okay, fine. I can come in today, not a big deal. But what…"

"Clint, David's gonna take it over if we're not up to scratch."

"Son of a _bitch,_" he sighed, running a hand through his hair. Clint fiddled with his shirt sleeves, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism. David was, in all respects, an asshat that was pissed some redneck from Iowa had managed to do so well for himself. David's people, Clint had been told, were good ole boys from Virginia, and had always had their fingers in important social pies (Clint was fairly sure this was another way of saying 'a bunch of rich, whiny little shits', but that wasn't the kind of thing you could just ask in their social circles). He had made it his personal mission to defame or impede Clint whenever possible. Clint, in turn, had made it his personal mission to irritate David by being successful, and sometimes becoming a little shit himself. But this had to be a new low, even for David.

"I am _so sure_ he's the one who pushed Bob into it," Marik said, sounding relieved to finally have a sympathetic ear. "Bob woulda never done this, with the group leader coming back from freakin'_Germany, _and when we've barely got our feet on the ground."

"Yeah, I know."

Clint spent the next fifteen or so minutes trying to put out fires, then finally convinced Marik to get off the phone and get some work done. He glanced at the phone screen, groaning to himself when he saw it was eight thirty. He could have been asleep right now. He could have been laying in bed, not worrying about his whole team freaking out because of one asshole, not thinking about how long he would have to spend in the office, he could have been doing _anything else._

Clint watched the street for a few moments, thinking. What was he to do now? He didn't need to go to work _right this second,_ but he doubted he had time for much else. By the time he got home, he would have to turn right around and head back out. What he _really _wanted to do was to go back to sleep, but he doubted he'd be able to just conk out after coming home from work…

Clint sighed. This day just wasn't cut out for him. He turned back to his room, and walked inside. Maybe he could tire himself out if he went to the archery range, then he could—

Natasha stared at him from the small table, holding a mug of coffee.

"You're awake," he said stupidly, _of course she was awake,_ but he couldn't get over her expression of flat _fear._ Not like people normally looked when they were startled, but like he had just broken into her home with a nail bat, and was ordering her to lock herself in the bathroom.

"I thought you would still be asleep now," he continued, closing the door behind him. He was starting to feel like he really _was_ the intruder here, and the explanation—apology?—had slipped from his lips without permission.

"Uhm, no, I just woke up, actually," she said. She had the same tone as him, explanation and apology twining together to make some sort of awkward statement. He nodded, gave some sort of noncommittal grunt, and moved toward the table. Natasha's grip on the cup tensed, ever so slightly, and she looked away from him. Clint paused, and the breathless surprise of the moment hardened into something more unpleasant.

"Mind if I…?" he asked, tilting his head at the other chair. Natasha blinked, and some of the tension eased out of her. She waved her hand at the space beside her, seeming a little confused.

"If I'd known that you wanted some, I would have packed better coffee," he said. Natasha gave a brief smile, and he was suddenly struck with the impression of having seen something he shouldn't. He shouldn't have witnessed her sitting there and taking a moment for herself. She had been caught naked, more exposed than she ever could have felt without clothes on, shattering the illusion that she existed only for the pleasure of others. Clint swallowed, and tried to ignore the way his stomach turned a little heavier at the thought.

"It's alright," Natasha said, looking in her cup. Clint laughed, forgetting what he had been thinking about.

"Come on, I only take that stuff with me so I can get my caffeine fix to get me on my feet before I go find coffee that _doesn't_ taste like river water."

"Not all rivers are dirty," she mused, making Clint chuckle again. Was she this polite normally, or just because she had been caught where she wasn't supposed to be?

They made small talk for a few more moments, then Natasha excused herself to the bathroom. He leaned his cheek against his hand, watching the bathroom door. She hadn't fidgeted while they had spoken, but there was some sense of her squirming around in her skin, trying to find something comfortable.

He stood up from his seat, figuring that he might as well let her leave by herself. He checked his pockets to make sure that he still had his wallet and keys, then paused. Clint considered for a moment, then picked up her coffee cup, and carried it to the sink. He rinsed it out, then set it down. He'd pack it up when he returned from breakfast.

Clint turned to the doorway once more, and again found himself pausing by the table. He didn't even consider the bright pink sticky note he left as he closed the door behind him.

_(__and you think that you should)_

Miranda's flowers were sitting on the table. A dozen roses, nice and neat and velvety red. One dozen beautiful, simple, ribbon wrapped lies. They felt like a condemnation from across the room.

"Clint, honey, I love you but if you keep squirming, I'm kicking you off the couch," Miranda said, not looking up from her book. He sighed, and shifted one more time, just for good measure.

"Sorry, I just…I dunno, can't get comfortable."

"Then try not sitting on the couch."

Clint shot her a look, then turned back to the football game. He was fine for a little bit, but then the commercial break started, and his attention started to wander.

Miranda snorted at something in her book, but she kept reading. One of his favorite commercials from last year's Super Bowl played, showing a kid running around his house, pretending to be Darth Vader. The neighbor's dog started that obnoxious whine that Miranda _swore_ she couldn't hear, even though he had pointed it out on several different occasions. Those damn fucking flowers were throwing spite at him from the kitchen table and if he didn't get up and go throw them out of the window, he was going to go _fucking_ _native_—

"Okay," Miranda said, "okay. What is it?"

"Huh?"

"What's wrong? What's got you all worked up? You've been on edge since we sat down."

"I just…it's nothing."

_I've been cheating on you with the same prostitute since April and I have seen her twice in the last three weeks and I absolutely hate myself for it but I can't stop._

"_Clint_," Miranda said, giving him the thine-lies-are-seen-by-mine-eyes look. "What is it?"

"Freakin' _David_," he found himself sighing, rubbing a hand across his forehead. The words had come out of his mouth before he even realized it, and for a moment, his stomach was seized in panic. Then he registered what he'd said, and relaxed a little.

"Oh, what'd he do now?"

"Nothing, he just—he is actively trying to get me fired, and it's starting to piss me off."

"Well, _yeah._ You have every right to be mad. Can you report him?"

"_No,_ because it just looks like he's being a kiss ass. I can't really do anything, except pray he gets hit by a truck."

"_Clint Barton,_" Miranda reprimanded, but she was smothering her laughter. She had always told him that was what made her decide to go steady with him—his straightforward and often irreverent manner of describing things. Clint was just pleased she saw it as amusing and not obnoxious, because Miranda was the very picture of proper behavior. How she hadn't been absolutely appalled at him from the first meeting, he had no idea.

"Look, it's true. I'm sharing my feelings, isn't that what your talk radio lady's always saying? 'Share your feelings', and I'm sharing my feelings, and my feelings are that David should be hit by a truck so he can't come back to ride my dick every day."

Miranda lost the battle against her mirth, and burst into laughter. Clint smiled at her, but he couldn't help but find her laughter a little too loud for his liking.

_(__but you don't love her anyway__)_

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

"_Barney_?" Clint had read the caller ID, but he hadn't quite believed that it was his brother, calling in the middle of the week, and not on a holiday.

"Uhm, hey-hey, uhm, Clint."

Clearly, Barney was just as uncomfortable as he was, because Barney _never_ stammered, except for the times when he had tried to come up with an excuse when faced with something serious, like arrest, or their father's wrath. Even then, his voice hadn't sounded as uncertain as it did now.

"…Hey. How're you?"

"M'alright, I guess. You?"

"Good enough. What's the occasion?"

"No occasion," Barney said, not even commenting on the suspicion in Clint's voice. At least he realized how _weird_ this was. "I just...I wanted t'say hi, see what's up. We haven't—we haven't talked since Easter, and I didn't wanna—"

He broke off, and Clint was glad he did. He had guessed what Barney was going to say next. _Didn't want to be left alone with a shit relationship with the only family I got left._

"…Okay," Clint said, not quite _disliking_ the idea but not really loving it, either. They had settled on only talking to each other a few times out of the year for a reason. They both realized that that much shit flying around in their childhood would result in either them being very close, or not being close at all.

They weren't very close.

Still, they made small talk for a quarter hour or so, in which time Clint's suspicions of Barney only wanting to ask for something were completely disproved. In fact, by the time they hung up…he felt alright. Despite all their faults, the Barton boys knew how to carry on a conversation, even if most of it was tiptoeing around unwieldy topics.

The only time they had drifted into tense waters was when Barney had mentioned their parents. Or, more specifically, their mother.

"Y'know…Ma's birthday's comin' up."

"Yeah, I know," Clint said, disregarding the way his voice had turned _frosty._

"I was thinkin'…of maybe goin' out there? Just checking up, or somethin'."

"Well, that sounds good," Clint allowed, pointedly biting back words like '_it's just a fucking grave, Barney'_.

There was a slight pause in which Clint _knew_ Barney was hoping that he would allude to wanting to visit their parents' graves as well, but it wasn't going to happen. Barney may have forgotten the nightmare that had been their childhood, but Clint certainly hadn't. He wasn't about to go put flowers on the graves of a man that had beat him senseless and the woman that had stood by and let it happen.

Barney sensed the tension in the air and casually backed off, tying it into some of his plans for the near future. Clint let the transition happen, partially because he didn't want to think about their parents any longer than he had tooband partially because he was actually _liking_ being able to talk to his brother.

A strange, almost _light_ feeling stayed with Clint for the rest of the day. It was noticeable enough that Miranda even commented on it when she dropped by that evening.

"You look chipper," she said, leaning against the counter.

"Uh, yeah, I guess?" he said, looking up from some papers for the Henderson project. "Oh, didn't I tell you? _Barney_ called me on my lunch break."

"_Barney_? As in your brother? As in the guy that doesn't call you except for on Christian holidays and your birthday? And sometimes not even on your birthday?"

"Yeah, I know, right? Totally unexpected. We just talked for a few minutes and then he said he had to go."

"That was it? He just wanted to shoot the breeze?"

"I guess so. He asked about you, how work was going, I asked about Sharon, how things were shaping up for him…"

Clint trailed off, a new little wave of surprise washing over him as he remembered their conversation. Then he noticed Miranda's expression. She was pursing her lips, making a dimple appear in her cheek.

"What?"

"Nothing, I just…don't you think it's a little odd?"

"How's that?" he asked, sensing where she was going and yet hoping that she wouldn't.

"I mean, not to smear your family, or anything, but…Barney's not exactly the best off. And when compared to _you,_ the family dark horse, the unexpected success story, the engineer living in New York, being hired for top dollar hotels and sky scrapers…don't you think—"

"That he's calling for money?" Clint asked. He hadn't meant for his voice to sound so cold, but it did and he couldn't exactly take it back. "Yeah, I thought about that. But Barney would have come right out and said it."

"Look, Clint, I'm not trying to burst your bubble, really, I'm not, I just don't want to see this…turn out bad."

"It's not like Barney's trying to wind me up, string me along on some amazing, brotherly relationship one only dreams about and then drop me on my ass. If Barney wanted something from me, Miranda, he would have said."

"I know, you _said_ that," she said, voice rising now. "But it _is _kind of weird. Why would he just call you up, for no reason? Literally, Clint, _no reason._ I'm just trying to point out how odd it is."

"Miranda, I get that, I really do, and I appreciate the effort, but you don't have to talk to me like I'm some damn idiot!"

Miranda didn't say anything at that, just gave him a _look,_ expression flat and unimpressed. Clint closed his eyes, and took a long breath.

"I'm sorry. I didn't—I don't think you were doing that. I shouldn't have said that. I really shouldn't have."

"I know," she said, voice all too stiff. "And…thank you. I didn't mean to push you like that, I just want you to consider things. I'm sure Barney's a good enough guy, and that he's not meaning to hurt you."

Clint gave her a thin smile, and nodded.

_I'm sure that he's not meaning to hurt you._

Like she was anticipating for things to get ugly and heartbroken at the end of it all.

* * *

_AN I love writing from Clint's POV. He's very direct about he sees things, but conversely, very determined not to see or address the uglier, 'shameful' parts of his life. It's almost to the point where he believes his front, which is an interesting thing to balance out within the story._


	2. part two

_AN This was about the point when I started to get worried, because this story was supposed to be a pithy little oneshot, maaaaaaaybe three shot at most. But things kept happening, and I just couldn't stop and things got emotional and gross._

_Warnings: Language, mentions of child abuse_

* * *

_(poor little rich boy)_

Natasha, for all of her pretenses as being reserved, bordering on standoffish, didn't mind talking about herself. Granted, this was after months of him seeing her, and 'talking about herself' constituted mainly of her telling him that she liked orange juice, or her saying that she enjoyed fall best, but it was something. He liked the way, when he whispered questions against her skin, she would murmur answers into his ear.

As long as he didn't think too hard about some of her answers, or some of his own, for that matter, everything was fine. Her laughter at some comment about having friends was amused in an honest way, and skirted comments about _the Landlord _were just to make Clint forget he had paid her, for the moment. Everything was fine.

After a while, though, Clint noticed that Natasha's tone wasn't of flippant honesty. It had evolved into some sort of brutal honesty, a brittle sort of trust that he couldn't help but feel she believed in whole heartedly. The thought made him feel like ice had been caught in his throat. She had made him little shutters in the walls she had so carefully constructed around herself, dropping little secrets through them and into his hands.

_ Why,_ he suddenly found himself asking her one day (he was admittedly a little drunk, and she admittedly a little fast asleep), _why tell all of this to me?_

And then, finally he pushed a little.

"Natasha, tell me something," he whispered one night, lips brushing against the base of her neck. His fingers were caught on her shirt buttons, and she had her legs wrapped around his waist. He could just feel her smile as she gave a glib comment about a volcano in Peru killing people in Russia. Clint rolled his eyes, and looked at her, really _looked _at her, head on. She gave him a little smile, but the look in her eyes was afraid. He considered a moment, then asked her, flat out, why she had become a prostitute. Natasha's smile was carved from ice when she said, "Well, they wouldn't exactly let me talk to people in the zoo."

Clint closed his eyes, because he had never heard that edge to her voice before, had never heard that stark _unhappiness._ Of course, he hadn't assumed that her life was all sunshine and roses, the sometimes skittish look in her eyes and all too submissive way she held herself attested to that, but he'd never heard bitterness like this before.

"That's not what I meant."

He smiled to show he hadn't meant it as an attack, and smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear.

"It's just…we've been doing this for, what, three months? Four? And still, I barely know you."

"Getting to know people isn't exactly in my job description."

"Alright, maybe not the best opening question," he sighed, shaking his head a little. "But my point still stands. I want to know a bit about the person I've been seeing at least twice a month." Natasha still looked unconvinced, which only made Clint want to know more. He leaned his head against the headboard, and heaved another sigh.

"Okay, fine. I will _pay_ you _twenty dollars_ for each pointed question you answer, alright?" Natasha's expression lightened, just barely, but there was still a healthy dose of doubt. "You don't have to answer anything you don't want to," he added, "but for everything that you _do, _you will get your money."

"No tricks?" Natasha asked, and Clint had to use all his might not to break into a full out triumphant grin.

"No tricks."

Natasha weighed her options for a moment, then said, "Okay. Ask, then."

He allowed himself a proper smile, then, and put his hand on his hips, steadying her.

"How did you come here?" he asked, thinking that easing her into this would be the best idea.

"I moved here from Russia a few years ago."

"By yourself?"

"No, with my parents. My uncle funded us, and we moved in with my grandparents."

"Do you miss Russia?"

"At times. America...is not like Russia in many ways. But when I look around at the things around me, it's hard to believe I ever left."

Natasha's words were soft, hesitant, and a little afraid. But when she spoke about herself, the look on her face wasn't as sharp as usual. The sleek, crystalline edge had gone, leaving something far more human in its place. Far more brittle, as well, making him worry about asking for any more.

Clint gave another smile, and toyed with the buttons on her shirt again. Back to normal, for her sake. When he leaned in to kiss her breastbone, he could feel her relieved sigh.

_(all the world is okay)_

He was fighting with Miranda again. Clint had no idea why, or even what they were arguing about, but there was just _constant bickering._ At first, he had dismissed it as stress, but things were _not_ getting better. When he really thought about it, though, Natasha's face always lingered in his mind, brushing the edge of his thoughts and making all of that guilt and frustration and shame catch on itself and come out as misdirected anger. It all tumbled onto Miranda, and she gave as good as she got, coldly cutting through his rash remarks and making him feel even worse, because it wasn't her fault, no matter how much he wanted it to be. It was all his, but just _looking_ at her made him feel guilty, and then angry.

He sighed, staring at the ceiling as if it held some of his answers.

Just being next to Miranda felt like a trial. The guilt was bad enough, but he was also sensing a definite rift between them, somewhere between the way she didn't automatically reach out for his hand, and how he didn't fall in line to wrap his arm around her shoulders. It was getting hard to be with her, but at the same time, Clint knew that he desperately _needed_ to stay with her. He'd never had something like this before, certainly never a person that had met him and liked him enough to want to _stay_. And to think that the first person who would actually want to live their lives with him turned out to be someone as amazing and wonderful as Miranda...the thought barely made sense. So he had to make this work, if only for the fact that he didn't know if there was anyone else that honestly cared. If he just gave it time, he would finally figure out to give that honest caring back.

"What's wrong?" Miranda whispered, rolling over to face him. He gave her a thin smile, and ran a hand through her hair. She pulled the covers up a little higher around her chin, and put on her listening face.

"I dunno," he mumbled. "Nothing, really. Just thinking."

"About…?"

"Family, I guess."

"Yeah, that's been weighing a lot, hasn't it?"

Barney's fluke phone call had turned out to not be such a fluke. He had continued to ring up Clint about once a month, and it had been almost three months, now. Clint wouldn't come out and admit it, but…he liked talking to his brother. It was nice, the sort of thing he'd never had and refused to ever dream about. He was certain Miranda was still dubious about it, but she had largely refrained from commenting, as she wanted to avoid more fights on the subject. There had been plenty of others to fill its place, though.

"I was thinking…" Miranda began, and some part at the back of his mind tensed, gearing up for whatever conflict was bound to happen. "I was thinking, maybe…we might invite your brother to the wedding?"

Clint experienced a strange moment of confusion, then absolute alarm, then dull understanding. He blinked, opened his mouth, considered, then closed it again. Clint had been expecting the beginnings of an argument, and now…he wasn't sure what to do.

Miranda laughed at his expression, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

"Is he really that bad in person?"

"What, oh, no, I just…I dunno, I hadn't really thought about it. Guest lists are…not my thing."

"Yeah, I know, that's why it's _me_ asking _you._ Do you think that would be okay, like, it wouldn't be awkward or anything?"

"No," he said after a moment, "no, I don't think so, I just…I haven't seen him in years," he realized, frowning.

"Didn't you say he mentioned coming into town, though? So you two could get together before the wedding, do whatever it is you need to, and then he could come, no problem. He could bring his girlfriend, and we'd all get to meet. It'd be nice, picturesque."

"Yeah," Clint mumbled, looking past her to the window, and thinking that she had missed some fundamental fact about him when she thought the words 'Barton' and 'picturesque' belonged to the same idea.

"Miranda," he said, another thought coming to him, "we haven't even set a date yet, how can you be planning a guest list?"

"Oh, you know. Can't hurt to be prepared," she said, giving him a mischievous smile. Clint rolled his eyes and looked back at the ceiling.

He wasn't all that sure if 'Barton' and 'wedding' really belonged in the same thought, either.

_(the water runs off your skin and down into the drain)_

Natasha's smile was relaxed and inviting against his mouth. He smiled as she ran her hands through his hair while she kissed him, loving how luxurious she made it all feel. She was sitting on his knee, and he had just started thinking about making her bra and underwear join her dress on the floor, when she ran her tongue over the peppermint in his mouth. He grinned at her, holding the mint between his teeth, daring her to take it away. Natasha gave a frankly devilish smile, and stole the peppermint from his mouth. When he asked for it back, she promptly chewed it up with an almost sickening satisfaction.

"You absolute _savage_," he sighed, holding her a little closer. "Who chews hard candy?"

"Delights like me," she purred, trailing a finger over his collarbone. Clint laughed into her hair, and then busied himself with slowly, slowly kissing all over her chest and neck. He drank in the way she shivered ever so slightly against his touch, running her nails through his hair—

Clint groaned, and sat back in his chair.

"What is it?"

"Nothing much, I just remembered that I was supposed to get a haircut before I went home," he sighed. He rubbed a hand over his face, recalling the time wasted schmoozing so and sos that he honestly didn't give a damn about. Miranda had been nagging him to get it done for _ages_ now, and he had sworn up, down, and to the side that he would. Well, her mildly skeptical look was now proving itself to be justified.

Natasha told him that she was _sure_ Miranda would forgive him, but he wasn't really listening, as his attention had turned back to the bra that was still very much on her body. He ran a finger underneath the strap, already planning out just how he was going to kiss her throat and undo her bra with one hand.

"If it bothers you so much, I could do it."

Clint paused at that, and looked at her. He had noticed how steady she had been, how comfortable, even, but her comment just then…it wasn't like the rest of her cheeky, seductive banter. This had felt real, somehow, a touch of doubt in her tone that made it sound like she was truly offering. As he looked at her, Natasha seemed to catch herself, expression closing off a little, turning a bit uncertain, as if surprised by her own forwardness.

"Would you do that, really?" he asked, and then she just _looked_ at him, as if it was her turn to search his soul.

"Yeah, sure, why not," she said after a moment, the words tumbling out. "If you've got something for me to use."

"Luckily enough, I do," he said, slipping her off his knee and moving toward his toiletries bag.

While Clint grabbed the scissors and comb, Natasha pulled the chair into the bathroom. She waited quietly for him to come, staring absently in the mirror. She rubbed her hands, then jerked them to her sides as if realizing what she was doing.

"Problem?" he asked, making her start. She shook her head, but the casual security she had shown earlier had disappeared. He smiled and held out the comb and scissors to her, more of a question now.

Natasha took them, then told him to sit down. He pulled off his pants and sat down, trying not to shudder as he sat in nothing but his underwear. She tried draping a towel around his shoulders, but he turned it away, muttering something about wanting to take a shower afterward. She nodded, glanced at the scissors, then the mirror. He watched her, and kept his gaze steady when her attention turned back to him. Natasha took a breath, then set a hand on his shoulder.

"How short do you want it?"

"Not too short. Just trim it up a bit, I'll go in and have it tightened up tomorrow. Just make sure you don't cut a chunk out completely."

Natasha ran the comb through his hair, hesitated, then made a quick snip.

"You do this often?" he asked eventually, noting the steady way she worked.

She smiled, not taking her eyes off his hair when she asked, "Cut my clients' hair? No, not really."

"I mean, cut hair. Or rather, how often have you done this before?"

"Getting worried about those bare chunks?"

"Getting curious, more like."

Natasha combed her fingers through his hair again, considering the length.

"I've done it quite a bit. I cut my grandfather's hair after my grandmother's Parkinson's became too much for her to use scissors properly."

"That was kind of you," he said, the words stumbling from his lips before he could even think about it. That statement alone was more about her past than she had ever volunteered before. Yet she didn't have that strained expression from last time. She just told him, the facts spilling out without a worry or care.

"It was necessary. I figured that since they were paying for the lights, the gas, the water, the sewer, the house, and food, then I could pick up some of the slack."

"You're certainly a better tenant than I was," he laughed ruefully. He ran a hand over his face, recalling the dingy, uncomfortable days of his childhood. It all was a heaving wreck, what with his angry drunk of a father, and his thin mouse of a mother. And Barney, taking the fall for Clint almost every time, ensuring that his younger brother would have a better shot at life than he would.

"I was so busy thinking about getting out of that hell hole that I didn't bother worrying about helping my parents out. Might have made a difference. A small one, anyways."

"How did you get out of there?"

"Scrimped, scrounged, and saved every penny, nickel, and dime I could, then got a scholarship for being a whiz bang mathematician. Then I got up, moved out, went to college, and found someone who could do something with me."

"Well, you are a _remarkable_ success story," Natasha smiled, shifting in front of him to reach a new section of hair.

"Thank you, I do try," he murmured, slinging his arms around her waist.

He _had_ tried, he had tried every day of his life to get away from home. First, he had tried running away, and then his father had come after him. Then, he started wandering, started working, started focusing more on school, anything to stay away from home, until he wasn't just that poor, unhappy kid from Iowa anymore, he was the wealthy, capable, unhappy man living in New York.

And what about Natasha? How had she gone from Russia to here, trying to get money any way she could? What had happened to her parents, her grandparents, the people that had taken care of her? Were they still around? Did they know about what she was doing now?

"What happened to your grandparents?" he asked, looking into Natasha's face. She blinked, and bit her lip, clearly not wanting to respond. They were quiet for a moment, and he noticed that she had stopped working altogether, her hands just hanging in midair.

Clint shook his head and sighed. He gave a thin smile, trying to ease her back, trying to keep this, whatever it was, going.

"Are we gonna have to go back to me paying you for answers?" he asked. It was a little alarming, hearing the _Iowa_ come punching back through his voice, but he kept his smile steady and his voice even.

"I don't want the money."

Clint blinked at the hard, unhappy tone in her voice. The words had been so quick, snapping out almost before they had had time to breathe, and it looked like it had surprised Natasha as well. But she didn't look embarrassed, or worried, just a strange sort of steady he wasn't sure he had seen before.

She didn't want the money. She, the prostitute, wanted something for her time and it wasn't money and he wasn't sure what else it could be.

But then again, it wasn't just her time he was attempting to trade. This was her story, this was paramount to her very soul. And he had tried to barter it away with a twenty dollar bill.

He took another breath, gave a more sincere smile, and said, "Fine, I won't pay you, then. I'll tell you my own story. Then we'll be even. Good enough?"

Natasha considered him, still wearing that strange expression, then she tilted his head back down so she could resume cutting his hair. Clint waited, practically holding his breath, wondering if she would take his offer.

"My grandparents died when I was almost eighteen," she told him, voice very, very soft. "I had dropped out of school to help them, took on a babysitting job for a teacher in my neighborhood."

"Where were your parents?"

"Where were yours?" she asked, giving him a tired smile. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, and pulled his hands from her hips.

"They were…around. My mom did what she could to take care of me and my brother, and my dad did what he could to be a terrible father, yet not get reported to the police." The words sounded like grating metal to his own ears, dull and dissonant. He had spoken about his family to other people before, he was a grown ass man and he could handle that, but telling Natasha felt…odd, personal in a way that he had never expected before. A thrill of anxiety started in his stomach, because he hadn't come to be _personal_ with her, the whole _point_ of his relationship with Natasha was that he didn't have to give her anything real! He may have whispered little truths in her ear from time to time, but it didn't count when he was making his way to an orgasm and couldn't think straight. None of it was important, none of it really mattered. It had taken Miranda _ages_ before he had confessed something like this, and he was engaged to her!

(and he was cheating on her.)

Clint took a pause to calm himself down, but made himself continue.

"My brother coped by being stupid and getting arrested for just about everything possible, while I tossed myself into school, determined not to end up like them."

Barney had stupidly taken the fall for him every single time. And yet there was still some sort of vague condescension in Clint's voice.

"My parents died in a car crash," Natasha whispered, as if literally trading secret for secret. Her voice was flat, refusing to feel for fear of what might come, and it was sincere. Clint swallowed back what he could only describe as nausea, because he couldn't do this, he couldn't taint and twist his life to make him look like the winner, not when she was being so damnably open for the first time.

"Were they good people?" he asked, trying to focus on her, trying to picture the little tragedy she was painting as she cut his hair.

"Yes. Both my parents and grandparents, they were very good people. They worked hard, they tried to do well with everyone. Their major flaw was not being mean enough to get ahead in this world."

And then Clint could suddenly see them. Kind, decent, hardworking people that had raised the woman before him to be _something,_ before life had neatly demanded she throw all of her substance away.

"Not a bad thing," Clint murmured, not sure if Natasha could even hear him. "That's definitely not a bad thing." It was so much better than the abusive alcoholic and down trodden bleeding heart that had ended up with him, least ways.

Natasha became quiet for a while, wrapping herself up in the same type of web Clint was desperately trying to free himself from. Clint closed his eyes, working to forget the days without meals, and the schoolyard fights over him being poor, and the screaming matches he'd had with his father about _everything,_ because they were two stubborn sons of bitches, and because that was just about the only time Clint could hear everything the man said.

"What happened to your grandparents?"

"They died as well. The house had bad pipes, and they asphyxiated while I went to the store."

Clint blinked, then closed his eyes. Natasha's voice was calm as when she said it, matter of fact more than anything. Her grandparents had died, and it hadn't been too bad for them, so she clearly didn't have any room to complain, since she was alive. Clint bit his cheek. It had hardly been so clean for him. When he had received the call saying that his parents had died in a car crash, he had felt empty. His entire life had been defined by avoiding and then despising his father, so much so that he wasn't even sure what to do with him gone. So he had put those thoughts away, boarded them up and continued on, like it didn't matter and it hadn't happened. He had only gone to the funeral because Barney had asked.

"Why did you start hiring girls?" Natasha asked, voice uncertain now, suddenly remembering her fear at treading in too deep. Clint gave a laugh at that, because he hadn't expected something so easy. Not when there were a thousand ghosts in the room, hissing at her ears and begging for her to make him writhe.

"Why else, I was lonely. I was in college, it was my birthday, and no one really seemed to notice. My brother called, but it was just to ask for money and a place to sleep, because he had gone and pissed off somebody somewhere, and couldn't stay in his usual cardboard box. I still don't think he ever realized what day it was."

Again, there was that cynicism, that bitterness that his brother hadn't even earned. It was one of two times Barney had called for money, and when Clint had pointed out that he didn't have all that much to begin with, Barney had stayed on the phone with him and continued asking about how Clint was doing. The other time Barney had asked, he had paid it all back within a year.

"Anyways, I felt sad and neglected and wanted someone to spend all of their attention on me, whether real or not. So I went driving, found someone…and picked her."

She had had black hair, and a pink dress that had made him think of bubble gum more than sex. He wasn't even sure why he had jumped to the idea of buying a prostitute, but he had let her come in his car and paid her after and felt absolutely nothing about it. It had just become the beginning of a terrible pattern, something he did when he didn't know how else to fill his time.

"Why…"

Clint trailed off, catching himself before the words made their way out. Could he ask that? Was he allowed to step into territory that Natasha had already stone walled him out of? He wasn't just asking out of idle curiosity anymore, this was a horribly pointed interest he didn't even want, this was asking to know about how Natasha the person had come into existence, not how some slut had worked her way on his lap with his hand up her skirt.

"Why…did you become a prostitute?"

"Because there was no money."

It shouldn't have surprised him. It really shouldn't have. It was the most basic answer, one that she had practically outlined for him already, but hearing it fall from her lips was like having a rock dropped onto his stomach.

Clint barely listened to the reasons, about how her grandfather didn't make enough as a plumber, and her grandmother needed medicine, and Natasha's own side jobs could only make it so far. They had been poor, and she decided to help in any way she could. She had compromised herself for her family, because that was the only thing that she could think of to get them by. And then there were the words, the ones that had escorted her to where she was standing now.

"So…one night I stood out on the street."

Natasha said it, and she laughed, like it was _funny,_ some sick, practical joke the universe had pulled on her, and she had learned to just deal with it, and laugh along with everyone else. She didn't sound quite so amused when she told him the rest.

"He offered me thirty dollars if I would just get in the damn car for half an hour. So I did, and I helped my family along. Then, when they died, I was eighteen with nowhere to live. I went to the streets, and I made my way for a while. Then the Landlord found me, and…he offered me a home. It…it was a good offer."

The Landlord, the man that lured girls in off the streets and then sent them back out again, night after night after night without fail, the man that made Natasha's mouth become a thin, reluctant line whenever he was mentioned, the man that wouldn't even allow his prostitutes to call him by name. He had snatched Natasha, and then twisted it around so that she felt guilty for not feeling _grateful._

"Is it still?"

Natasha snapped her eyes to him, alarm flicking across her face. Clearly, she hadn't realized the question in the end of her own statement.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Clint refused to drop his gaze, and Natasha seemed completely unable to, transfixed by the abnormally challenging tone to his voice. He noticed that she was clenching the comb so tight that her arm was shaking.

"You're done," she murmured, stepping back and looking away from him. It was a defeat, and she had not even answered his question. Clint stared at her, trying to work the words from his mouth, trying to get something, _anything _out, but he couldn't even open his lips. He instead shook his head, and stood.

Natasha slipped past him, eyes on the floor. He turned his head to watch her go, almost ready to say something, but then she was gone. He watched the place she had been, then looked back at the bathroom. His hair was scattered across the floor, suddenly disgusting and making his skin crawl. He supposed that it could have been some sort of representation for the secrets they had just shared, but Clint thought it more accurate that they stood for the illusions that had just been crumbled into doubt.

He turned on the shower and climbed in before it had even warmed up, biting his cheek and wishing he could wash away whatever it was he had curling in his chest and making him feel like he was going to choke.

Clint washed the hair off his skin, trying to ignore the sound of Natasha returning and cleaning up. Neither of them said anything, but he could feel her thoughts, skittering around and refusing to settle. They pushed up against his skin, like she was pressing hands all over his body, covering him up and trying to tip him over.

He stayed in the shower a while after she left the bathroom, desperately striving to keep himself together. When he was finished, he moved towards the kitchen. Natasha was in bed. Not waiting for him, just laying there, curled up in a ball underneath the blankets. He made himself not look at her as he pulled a roll from the leftovers of his dinner. He couldn't go lay next to her, not when he was supposed to touch her, not when he felt like _this._

Clint turned off the light in the bathroom, biding his time. He paused before the bed, and held his breath. He had _done _something there, when he had asked her to cut his hair and then coaxed out a few of her most precious secrets. He had done something, and he really did not know if he wanted to face the consequences.

Clint clenched his teeth, then got in beside her. He wrapped his arms around her like he always did, and rested his head beside hers. She was rigid in his arms, a rock of anxiety and uncertainty. The honest fear she felt pressed through his skin, making his very bones ache. She didn't deserve this. She had given _everything,_ and she did not deserve to be wrapped up in such fear and self-disgust.

"It's alright," he whispered, pressing his lips against her jaw. "You've done alright, Natasha, you've done alright."

"Who told you that?" she asked. It sounded like she was waiting for the joke, waiting for the punchline to hit and make her hurt all over again. But at the same time…he could hear the smallest flecks of hope, almost too small to be real. And while it made him want to cry, it also made him smile.

"You did," he managed, leaning up to kiss her on the mouth, then the neck. He held her close, not tight exactly, just pressed her right up against him, wishing she _felt_ the way he was feeling, could sense the desire for her to be happy coming through his skin.

Natasha might have, because she relaxed against him. It was slow, like she was testing the water, but then she had melted right into his side.

He didn't fall asleep for a long time. Clint just laid against her side, aching for reasons he could barely name. Natasha drifted off, relaxing even more in his arms, but he laid awake, his lips against her neck, his eyes refusing to close for a long time.

When he did wake up, it was late. He didn't bother with the normal routine of getting up and getting out quickly, to allow her some time to herself, he let himself be selfish and drink her in. She was different in the morning, too. Natasha was normally asleep when he woke up, but he realized there had always been a tense quality to it, making him think she had been faking. Now, she was almost warm in a way that made him think she was indulging in his company.

That thought made it very difficult for him to get out of bed. But he did, and he pulled the blankets back up around her, and he pulled on his clothes, and he laid out the sticky note, and he left her the money. He added twenty extra dollars. Not for her story, but for the haircut.

* * *

_AN I could talk about the haircut scene for forever and a day. There is just so much going on there, and it's so amazing. It definitely explains a lot more about Clint and why he is the person he is._


	3. part three

_AN *pained laughter*_

Warnings: Language, mentions of assault, allusions to child abuse

* * *

_(you're reading fitzgerald, you're reading hemmingway. they're both super smart, and drinking in the café)_

"Clint, are you listening to me?"

"Hm, what?"

Miranda was frowning at him, hands shoved deep into her pockets. They were standing on the sidewalk in Manhattan, trying to decide on a place to have an early lunch.

"I asked you how your day was. I also told you how mine went, but judging by your generic grunts, you weren't listening to that, either."

"Oh, uhm, yeah. Sorry."

She sighed, and rolled her eyes.

"Alright. Clint, how was your day?"

"Uhm, great, awesome, just too fantastic."

"Awesome in a real way, or a sarcastic way?"

"You pick."

Miranda suppressed a groan, and rolled her eyes yet again. He gave her a look that she couldn't see, and slowly turned back to the café fronts facing them.

"So, which do you want?"

"Mm, we had sandwiches yesterday. Let's go with that pasta place."

"Yeah, fine."

He couldn't do this anymore. Breathing felt like trial around her, because he was never sure which one would loose his secret, which one would reveal what a deplorable person she had wasted so much time with. But he was also started to crave that release, to just come clean, flat out tell her what had happened, to admit it and let her react however she may.

Clint closed his eyes. His guilt was dragging at his very bones, and yet he didn't know what to do. Or rather, he did, but he was too much of a coward to do anything about it.

"Thank you for the flowers, by the way," Miranda said, words practically a mutter.

"Oh, yeah, you're welcome. I thought…I thought you'd like them." There had been seven roses, each one long stemmed and nearly black, they were so red. He much preferred the variety of the sticky notes, but there was something about the flowers that demanded uniformity, a systematic representation of his guilt.

"They were lovely," she murmured. Neither one of them even bothered pretending to be sincere in their words.

_(you don't love your girlfriend and you think that you should)_

Clint opened his door, and called out a greeting to Miranda. He had been called in late to work while she had been over, and she had decided to stay there for the night.

"Hi, Clint." There was something off in her voice, removed, almost dead. He turned around, surprised to find her sitting at the counter.

"Hey. Did your show end?"

"Yeah, it did. Clint…I think we should talk."

He knew that they probably shouldn't.

It wasn't a good talk. They didn't yell, or snap, or argue in any way, but he still felt like he had been run over ground glass. Miranda was efficient in her explanation, though, neatly outlining the reasons why she thought things wouldn't work out, and that it would probably be best for both of them if they just…went separate ways.

He didn't disagree with her in any way. He had been thinking the same thing for far too long now, but this…this was not how it was supposed to work out. She wasn't supposed to just get up and say that they should not be married, because she still strangely loved him and didn't want him to suffer. She wasn't supposed to sound sad and be careful of his feelings when she made her argument. She wasn't supposed to look at him like he was still _a decent fucking guy,_ not when he had been whoring around on her for _months!_ Clint didn't care that Miranda was leaving him, but it should have been for the _right reasons,_ it should have been because he had been honest with her and she knew that he was a despicable human being that covered up his shit pile of a life with a big smile and nice fancy job, and not because she didn't want either of them to hurt any longer than they had to.

He didn't say any of that, though. He couldn't even process it properly. As she spoke, he kept thinking that this was wrong, she had it wrong, but none of it came out. Clint just watched her stupidly as she stood up from the bar stool, have him a sad smile and kissed his cheek.

"You're not a bad man, Clint. It's not your fault. It's just…we didn't work out," she said, and even though she _didn't know,_ it felt like she had just sucker punched him in the stomach. He blinked and watched her go, and managed to mumble out something like _you deserve the best, _and then she closed the door, and that was it. He was no longer engaged. His fiancée had just walked out the door, because she had the guts to do what he hadn't, and she didn't even know the half of it.

This time, he knew why he called for Natasha. He knew exactly what he wanted from her when he placed the order, and when he drove over to the sleazy motel. He knew it, and he tried not to think about it, but that was really all he had, because Miranda was _gone._

Natasha showed her shock for only the briefest moment, and then she was all professionalism, giving some teasing comment and casting him a look that said _take my clothes off right now._ But she didn't throw herself on him. Natasha sat down in a chair, almost prim in the action. She could tell he wanted to talk.

Surprisingly enough, Natasha didn't show any signs of recognizing the emotional carnage that had been left after their last meeting. She just sat there and played coy as he dropped down beside her. Clint's smile turned a little bit more sincere at that, because she was doing him a kindness he truly did not deserve.

They talked, but didn't really say anything for a while. Clint made do with small talk for half an hour, because he didn't think he'd be able to work the truth out of his throat. Natasha played along, though she noticeably became antsy as the time passed, and he showed no signs of returning to their normal game. But she didn't stop him, she just waited for him to spill.

And he did. And it hurt. But he didn't actually talk about the problem, he just…talked about _her._ He told her about her too loud laugh, and the way her closet was filled with navy shirts, and how she was embarrassed by her singing, even though he thought it had potential. Clint detailed Miranda, the person he couldn't bother being honest with, or focusing on, or loving anywhere near as much as she deserved, and with each word, he realized just how much he had _messed up._ It wasn't just with Miranda, it wasn't like he had lost The One, and now he was left to pine for the rest of his life, it was the whole thing, the fact that he had lived his life so that he thought treating her the way he had was _okay._ Or, at least, okay enough to keep doing it.

At some point, Clint had to stop. He interrupted himself and gave a quick, "You wanna drink?", already out of his seat and heading toward the bottle of vodka he barely remembered buying.

"Yeah, sure, if you want one," Natasha smiled. She was flattering and complimentary as always, but there was absolutely no conviction in her words.

He poured them both a drink, and set one before Natasha.

"My uncle always said that vodka was supposed to be taken the way Russians were," Natasha mused, picking up the glass.

"How's that?"

"Cold and bitter."

Clint gave a huff of a laugh, dropping his eyes from hers.

"Well, I never had an uncle that I ever got to talk to, but I had my brother," he said, not even bothering to give the topic of drinking and his father a thought. "He said that if you were going to get shitfaced, you might as well do it right."

"He sounds like a man with a plan."

"He's a man with a _lot_ of plans. Intended results, however…less so." Clint tried to smile again, but his body seemed to be rebelling against him, refusing to fake one more moment of happiness.

Natasha downed her vodka in one go, which was the only excuse Clint needed to take care of his. He offered her another, and she accepted, but his was the only glass that was refilled, and refilled, and refilled.

"Natasha," he finally managed, not because he had become brave, or decided to stop chicken footing it around the subject, but because he was completely drunk off his ass and too pathetic to feel any more hurt.

"Yes?"

"She's gone…Miranda left me."

Natasha didn't respond. She didn't have to, though, it wasn't her job, it wasn't her life. He was just asking her to listen, not to feel or be at all bothered by some stranger's life. She just watched him as he poured himself another glass, and another, and another. Natasha waited for him to do whatever he wanted next, until he couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't stand this _intimacy, _the way she watched and accepted and soaked up all of his hurt. Clint leaned over and kissed her, hating himself for not being able to do anything else.

They both tasted like too much vodka, and there was another bitter taste underlying it, but he didn't focus on that. Instead, he kissed her mouth, and then her ear, then her jaw, then her neck, placing his hands high up on her thighs and trying to feel _something_ that made sense. But he couldn't.

Clint pulled away from Natasha, dropping his eyes to the floor. Natasha dragged in a breath, but didn't look at him. He stood up and moved over to the bed, dropping down onto it. Natasha waited a moment, then sauntered toward him. He watched her dully, noting how her smile was the kind that he knew tasted sinfully wonderful. She settled on all fours over him, kissing him long and slow as she undid one of his shirt buttons. He clenched his teeth, because he couldn't _do _this, he couldn't bury yet another person in his own horrible mistakes.

He put a hand on her shoulder, and gently pushed her to the side.

"Go to sleep, Natasha."

She stayed still beside him, almost rigid. He listened to her breathe, listened to her settle into…something. She wasn't happy, that he could tell, and it made his chest twinge in a new way that he thought he might be able to deal with.

He rolled over to face her back, then leaned over to kiss the side of her neck. Not like before, this was an apology meant only for her.

"I never meant for it to go like this," he whispered, face still in her hair. Natasha relaxed ever so slowly, settling against his body. Clint closed his eyes, wishing he could kiss her again, but knowing that he had absolutely no right.

In the morning, he shifted off the bed and fumbled for Natasha's money. Out of sheer habit, he also reached for a sticky note. Before he could press it against the wall paper, though, his hand caught, because he wasn't really sure what to do when he wasn't exchanging each sticky note for a rose.

_(but you don't love her anyway)_

"_Hey!_"

Clint ignored the voice at first, but looked around when he heard them shout his name. It took him a second, but then he realized he was staring at _Natasha_, striding towards him in Central Park. She looked different, predictably, the midnight facade she wore having worn off in the sunlight. She was wearing a dress, but this one almost reached her knees, and her shoes were casual and probably comfortable, not a mile of fetish inducing leather, buckles, and lethal heels. She was also _angry, _expression open and unrepentant.

"Why did you do that?" she demanded, stopping a few feet before him. He frowned, trying to process the whole situation as he shook his head.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you go _call me up_ if you weren't even going to_ do_ anything?"

Clint blinked, still trying to get over the surreal quality of the situation. Was she really yelling at him for not sleeping with her? He suppressed a grimace, remembering what a pathetic creature he had been, just a week ago. Then he thought about Calvin Hughes, the domineering pimp that dictated everything about her life. Did he have rules against that sort of thing? He shouldn't have, Natasha had still been paid in full. Had she gotten in trouble because of him?

"I…don't really see what the problem is," he began, keeping his voice calm and steady. Clearly, this wasn't the right answer, as Natasha snarled at him and turned her face away, too angry to speak.

"Why did you pay when I did _nothing?_" she said after a moment, disgust laced with an unsteady confusion filling her voice. "You made a fool out of me, you know that? I have _one job, _and you can't just _not_ let me—"

Natasha stopped talking, her expression suddenly becoming sharp and turning in on itself. He was glad she didn't say it. He didn't want to hear the condemnation fall from her mouth, didn't want to hear words like _hooker, slut, whore_.

"Why did you give me the money?" she asked, voice a little quieter now. The self-righteous rage had died down as well, leaving her deflated and almost a little lost. Clint looked at her, then looked away, thinking things over. It really hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time (even though he was too hung over to do more than stumble through the routine), and he hadn't thought twice about it since. He had been more preoccupied with the fact that he was watching his life gently ripped itself to shreds to worry about paying a prostitute for a night full of nothing, but to hear Natasha talk about it…it was a mystery, a strange act that she couldn't wrap her head around.

He nodded, then got to his feet. Natasha stared at him, searching for the answers in his face, so he gave her a smile. She seemed to break before his gaze, uncertain as how to act when not having to fight for everything.

"I paid you because I find your time to be valuable, just as much as anyone else's."

Natasha reverted back to a glare, like she had caught him in a lie. He kept the smile, showing her that, for once, he was being entirely honest. Natasha suddenly whirled on her heel and stalked away, not even bothering to glance back at him.

He watched her go, wanting to call her back and press more money into her hand, because she understood money and his emotions and sentiments weren't worth a whole lot to begin with. But he stayed put, watching Natasha walk away absolutely furious, but also so wonderfully self-assured.

He put his hands in his pockets and turned away. It took him a few moments to realize that he had just had an _argument_ with Natasha. It took him a little longer to realize that he had made a concentrated effort to make her understand, and not to hurt.

_(and you don't love your mother)_

Clint sat in the restaurant, leg bouncing up and down at a frantic pace as he waited. He had known this was coming, but knowing it and having fully prepared himself for it was an _entirely _different matter. He smoothed the edge of his napkin, wiped the condensation off his water glass, and generally fidgeted with everything on the table.

"Clint!" someone called, and he felt his breath stop. He looked around, then put on the smile that said he had the world in his pocket.

"Barney," he said, standing up from the booth. They had settled on some place a little more casual, as they had both silently recognized that this meeting would be all sorts of uncomfortable without added layers of formality. So there Clint was, standing in his work suit in the middle of a burger joint, looking at his brother in a dark green long sleeve shirt and nice jeans. Clint suddenly felt like he was wearing a lie.

They gave each other a familiar enough hug, and then both sat down.

"How ya doin'?" Barney asked, running his hand over the edge of his menu. Apparently, he was just as nervous as Clint was.

"Good enough," Clint said, shrugging. Barney nodded and gave a slight smile, because it had been years and he no longer knew what it looked like when his brother lied.

"And you?"

"M'alright. Sharon's been riding me up a wall about cleanin' myself up, but, y'know, girls always wanna have their man be the best."

"Yeah," Clint said, and tried not to panic when he couldn't breathe past the lump in his throat. "Yeah, I guess. So, uh, things're good with you two, then?"

"Oh, yeah, it's good. It's really…it's great," he said, giving a mild smile. Clint wondered if he had ever looked that way when talking about Miranda.

"That's good, that's good, I'm glad to hear it. You …you deserve to be happy."

"Yeah? And what about you? You 'n Miranda set a date yet?"

Clint dropped his eyes, and tried not to choke.

"Me and Miranda…we…we broke it off."

_We broke it off._ That was probably one of the worst lies he'd uttered yet.

"Clint…holy shit, _Clint,_ I'm sorry, I didn't—are you okay? When'd this happen?"

"Not too long ago," he said, feeling a little uncomfortable under his brother's concern. "We just…we haven't been workin' out, you know? Things just sort of…fractured. It's probably for the best."

"Yeah but…holy shit," he repeated, the words just a whisper now. Barney looked down at the table, then again at his brother, searching for some way to make it _better,_ as if he could possibly fix yet another of Clint's messes.

"It's fine," he said, because that was the terrible part, he mostly _was_ fine. He could strangely live with the fact that Miranda had walked out on him, it was just his own failings, his unbelievable _guilt_ at not even having tried to be honest with her, not having even tried to make it work. "I'm…it's okay."

Barney made a strange face.

"What, really, I'm alright. Stuff like that happens."

"Yeah…" Barney muttered, but he did not sound convinced.

They ordered their food and muddled through strained conversation over lunch, then finally Clint cleared his throat and looked Barney in the eye.

"What's this about, though Barney?" he asked, too tired to try to put any fight in his voice. "Why'd you come see me?"

Barney sighed and shifted in his seat, clearly not comfortable in saying.

"What d'you need? Money, a reference? Just tell me. You've never had to come meet me in _person_ before, to ask for something."

"It's not that," Barney said, raising his hands. "I swear, it's not that. I just…Clint, it's been years. I haven't see you in ages, and I don't…I don't wanna end up not knowing my family."

Clint gave him a look, and Barney ran a hand through his hair.

"I just…It's Sharon, you know? She's got this huge family, and I've met just about every damn person in it that's still livin', and then when they ask about me, I say I've got a brother. So 'course they say 'Oh, so you must be close', and that's the thing, Clint, we're _not._ We've been through the hell 'n high water, but I don't know _jack_ about you. Yeah, you're an engineer in New York, and I _thought_ I knew you were engaged, but we're not—"

Barney cut himself off and stared out the window, running his tongue over his teeth, like he had bitten into something bitter.

"I don't wanna not know you 'cause a Dad."

Clint clenched his teeth, then looked down at his silverware.

_(and you know that you should and you wish that you would)_

It was almost eleven when the phone rang. Clint picked it up, a little curious when he saw it was Barney. It had been a few weeks since they had eaten lunch together, and though things had been a little chilly, they still talked every once in a while. Every time Clint heard Barney's voice, the words _I don't wanna not know you 'cause a Dad_ came back into his head, and the thought of his father was like chugging a bottle of vinegar. But he stuck with it, because Barney had a point, and Clint didn't think he had the energy to run away from anything more in his life.

"Hello?"

"Clint, can I—can we—Clint can I come over?"

"Uhm, Barney?"

"Yeah?"

"You live in _Pennsylvania._"

"I know, I know, I just—I'm on the highway, and I—please, Clint, can I come over?"

"How long will it take?" he sighed, sitting down at the table.

"To—?"

"To get here."

"Forty minutes."

Clint put his head in his hand, and sighed through his nose. He gave his brother his address.

Barney knocked on the door a little while later. Clint hadn't really noticed the time pass, he had just sat at the table and tried not to think, but then his brother was there and everything was turned on its head.

"Clint, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to barge in like this, but I—I'm sorry, I know it's late 'n all, but I didn't—"

"Barney, hey, calm down. Sit, take a second to breathe," Clint said, stomach tying itself in knots as he watched his brother's seams fray.

Barney sat at the table, but he kept fidgeting, refusing to meet Clint's eye.

"What is it?" Clint asked, after he had placed a cup of water in front of him and sat down as well.

"I—son of an ever loving _fuck,_ I didn't mean—Clint, you gotta understand."

"If you'll just freakin' _tell_ me," Clint said, and Barney nodded, running his hand through his hair.

"I messed up. I messed up big, and I don't—I don't know what to do."

"What is it? It is Sharon, is someone hurt—?"

"No, I just—it's a loan shark," he said, voice small and miserable. Clint stared at him, then closed his eyes.

"_Barney,_" he sighed, "you _know_ not t'get mixed up in that shit. What were ya _thinking_—"

"I don't know! I didn't—it's not like I—I didn't know," he said, and the self-disgust in his voice made it clear it was not an excuse. "I thought it was all legit, I really did, I swear, but then he came 'round, and his goons started wreckin' stuff, and Clint, Sharon was gonna be there soon, and I didn't want her mixed up in it, and I don't know what to _do_."

"Did you pay him?"

"First time, yeah, before I knew. Right in full, on the button, but then he…"

"Came back. Did it happen tonight?"

"Found a knife in an envelope addressed to me."

Clint hissed out a curse, and leaned back in his chair.

"That's why I came to you, I thought maybe, with your connections, you could find a lawyer or somethin', or…or…"

He looked at Barney, pathetic and anxious and so, so filled with regret, and Clint felt his heart break. Barney had practically raised Clint. He taught him just about every important thing Clint knew, from how to make a good lie, to know when to stand up for his morals, to how to hit someone and make them stay down. And yet there he was, head in his hands at Clint's kitchen table, a now undulating schism between them.

"I dunno if a lawyer's gonna cut it. I mean, yeah, take 'im to court, sure, but the guy's probably loaded, knows the right people, can pull the right strings. If you take him in there, then he's gonna wipe the floor with you, and then come back and make ya pay, in both ways. Not a good idea."

"I _know,_" Barney groaned, head in his hands know. "I just—Clint, I don't know what to do."

Clint took a second, then said, "Turn 'im to me."

"What?"

"Tell him to come to me. I'll take care of it."

"What—no_,_ Clint, _no," _Barney snapped, jerking upright. "That's not why I came back! I didn't come back into your life just so you could pay my damn debts, I'm not—that's not the only reason I come to you."

"I know," Clint said, wondering if he really did know, if he knew any damn thing at all. "I get why you started callin', and I get why you came here tonight. You're not tactful enough to play that passive-aggressive shit. I just—"

"You're gonna get yourself killed, is what! I _know_ you, you're not gonna go pay that bastard! You're gonna be that noble ass that's gonna get beat to pieces, and I can't let that happen. Clint, _no, _I just can't do that."

"Barney. You've got Sharon to think about, and if you keep this up, they'll come after her, Barney, I swear it to ya. I'll deal with it, I promise. I ain't got somebody to hurt."

Barney chewed on his cheek, expression unhappy and worried and so, so tired.

"What're you gonna do?"

"Not sure yet. I'll look around, see what I can find out to fix it. Promise, Barney, it'll be all good."

Barney was quiet for a while, and the hurt on his face was almost enough to cut into Clint's chest.

"Why're you doin' it, Clint? You're the star child, you got _out,_ you kicked the dirt of our shitty little town and our shitty little lives and our shitty little family off your shoes, and you _did _somethin' with yourself. Why…why're you letting me throw it back on?"

Clint shrugged, not even bothering with his sharp, confident smiles, or the bright smirks, or anything. Neither one of them were much up to wearing a false face.

"I dunno, Barney. It just seemed like the brotherly thing to do. And if Ma taught me one thing, it's that I don't ever wanna be the person to stand by and watch my family get the crap beaten outta them."

Barney gave him a smile in way of thank you, but it looked more like he was holding back a whimper of pain.

_(you're so young)_

Natasha knocked on the door, sending a thrill of relief through his chest. He forced himself to his feet, and he pulled the door open for her. Just looking at her seemed to loosen the bands around his chest and let him breathe without a stab of pain.

She stumbled back when he pushed her into a kiss, a little surprised but responding like she was supposed to. She yanked back on his hair as she kissed his neck, her dark pink lipstick probably making smudges on his skin. He tried not to think about how much it hurt when she grabbed the back of his shirt, her nails scraping against his skin. He tried not to think about why he was doing this, or why he was doing anything, he tried not to think about what Barney would look like when he found out just what was going on with Clint.

Clint tore off Natasha's dress, holding her hips as he pinned her against the wall, kissing as much of her chest as he could reach. She pushed him back toward the bed (her hands against his chest didn't make him wince at all it didn't it didn't it didn't), and he pulled her with him. He rolled her over and kissed her shoulder, tracing her spine with his lips as his hands wound their way through her hair. He reached her bra, and undid the snap with his teeth, relishing the way she shuddered at the touch. This was what he wanted, this moment where no one hurt, where it was just him and Natasha and his mouth on hers and her hands undoing his shirt _wait the lights were on—_

Natasha gasped underneath him, but he tried to distract her, tried kissing her jaw because he didn't _want_ this, he didn't want it he wanted her to laugh and touch him like he was precious and worth every second of her time and not completely and utterly _broken._

She pushed his face away, and he knew it was over. His stomach dropped away, hating what he knew would come next. He couldn't even meet her eyes.

"Clint," she asked, voice harsh and so, so scared. "Clint, _ooooooh my gosh_, Clint, what happened?"

He couldn't help but clench his hands in the blankets when he pictured what she saw, a desperate man that was far too young for the bruises all over his chest and a pride that was little more than shrapnel at his feet. He swallowed and faced her, knowing that she was really taking him in now, and hardly even caring. As she looked at him, he felt her tense, her expression tightening until he thought she might push him off and run out the door. He honestly wouldn't blame her. Clint knew by now that his suffering was contagious. But he also really, _really_ hoped she wouldn't.

"It's nothing, Natasha." Barney had told the shark Clint would deal with it. "Just got a little careless when I got out of bed." The shark had come for Clint, and Clint refused to pay. "It's fine." He was used to being hit until he couldn't breathe. Of course, it had been a few years, but muscle memory about that never really went away.

Natasha stared at him, looking aghast and upset and angry and like she wanted to say something. He gave her a smile, because he had to be brave, he had to act like he wasn't dying on the inside, because if he did and if she saw it and if she reacted in any way, he knew that he would break into tears.

"Don't mind me, Natasha. I'm fine."

Natasha clenched her teeth once, then twice, eyes going over him again. She closed her eyes and dragged in a breath. When she opened them again, she gave him a slight smile, and kissed his fingertips like she had so long ago. Clint closed his eyes and nearly slumped against her, because he wasn't sure _what_ she was telling him, but it was wonderful and painful and he wanted to soak himself in it until he died.

She didn't comment on his injuries again, but she clearly thought about it. When she kissed his chest, it was soft and slow, a blessing pressed against his skin. She let him kiss her however he wanted as she held him, giving him shelter from the storm. He would have liked her to be aggressive, to be angry and to lash out at him, to drag her teeth down his skin and make him _writhe_, because he wanted to beat whatever was in his head out, but there was something lovely about the way she treated him like a gift. It was a dissonant kind of peace, not really serene, but also not quite unpleasant.

That didn't keep him from crying into her hair after she had fallen asleep, because he knew it would happen again.

And it did. The loan shark, Haulders, paid him another visit about a week and a half later, and demanded the money that Barney had already paid. Clint tactfully refused. He then spent the afternoon pressing frozen packs of vegetables against his body and trying not to get blood on the carpet.

His excuse at work was that he had found a new, fairly satanic trainer that wasn't satisfied until Clint couldn't really move.

Clint called for Natasha again, and he could see the wariness in her eyes when she walked through the door. But she still let him pull her onto his lap, straddling his waist and settling her arms around his neck. She hesitated for the briefest moment when he winced as she brushed against his newer bruises, but her hands continued to undo his shirt.

He watched her as she took in the new injuries, expression pointedly blank. Then she looked at him, and kept his gaze as she leaned down and kissed the spot just above his heart. Clint reached out and took hold of her thigh, pulling her a little closer. She ran her thumb over his cheek, and it made his throat stop up, because it was probably the most tender touch he'd ever had.

Natasha asked him where the bruises were from yet again, when he was almost asleep and could almost forget just how much he _hurt._ He told her he tripped over a power cord. The lie tasted like blood in his mouth. It must have felt off to Natasha as well, because she asked him again, every time he called her over, and each time, he lied. Until, one day, he told her. It was after his fourth visit from Haulders, and he hurt so much that he couldn't do much more than sit on the bed with Natasha on his lap.

"A loan shark," he said into her hair, the hiding place of all his secrets these days. "They're from a loan shark."

And, of course, because he would give her practically anything to get her to stay, he also told her his name. And that he didn't know why he cared enough to get involved in the first place, but that was part of one secret he didn't think he would share with her any time soon.

* * *

_AN I don't actually know Barney all that well, but what I DO know is that I am incredibly invested in him, esp his relationship with Clint don't look at me it is just too much._


	4. part four

_AN OKAY, HERE WE GO, THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF THE END. Only one more chapter after this!_

_All of these chapters have been more or less broken up according to the evolution of Clint's character. He starts out as a very selfish, jaded, and exceptionally resigned person, but by the last couple of chapters, he has developed so that he isn't just accepting that things are happening, he actively wants to change and improve them. His only problem is that he currently does not know how, or does not have the means to._

Warning: Language, allusions to domestic abuse, allusions to child abuse, mentions of assault

* * *

_(you're so daggum young)_

And then, Haulders stopped coming by. Clint couldn't guess the reason, he just knew that he was holding his breath, waitingfor it to happen, waiting for the days to run out and then _pain,_ but they didn't run out. They went on, and on, and on, until he decided that he had better let his breath go. He called Barney to tell him that it was dealt with, that after refusing to pay for long enough, Haulders had given up. Barney's relief was so, so refreshing on the other end of the phone, that Clint didn't mention the fact that he could barely walk, or that he wasn't _really_ sure if Haulders was gone, but that he was _pretty_ sure and that was good enough in his book.

Things were getting better. But they were also getting stranger.

There was an edge in Natasha's eyes that he didn't like, because he didn't know it. He knew how she looked by now, he could see pity and denial and flirtation and frustration and resignation in the moments just before she tried to hide it. But he had no idea what _that look_ in her eyes was, when she glanced away from him to toss his belt onto the floor. When he asked, she sucked in a breath and stammered out something about being fine. So he went with it, he wrapped his fingers up in her hair and kissed her collarbone and played along.

But he couldn't. He asked her again, whispering the words just before her lips. Her own words were defensive and quick, wrapping themselves up in his ears and telling him _this is a lie._

"Okay." He sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and waited for her next move. She smothered a frown, because she was practically laying on him, and yet he was sitting like he was at a children's play, politely interested and waiting for the next mild entertainment. The longer he did it, the more antsy she became. He had learned that she did not like varying from their path, and if it meant he had to just sit there and make her uncomfortable with his amount of inaction to get what she was hiding in her eyes, then he would do it.

After a little while, he asked her to stand up, and, a little deflated, she slipped off of his lap. He went about undressing, then slid into bed.

"You coming?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Of course," she sniffed, then undressed as he had, and climbed in beside him. He may have banned himself from touching her, but Clint felt perfectly within his right to wrap his arms around her and hold her close and tangle his legs up with hers and press his face into her neck when she turned to face him. He loved the simple sound of her heartbeat.

Clint did this for two more visits, then he decided he was bored with the game. The next time he called her over, he invited her into the shower with him. Before he could make it to the bathroom, though, his phone rang.

"You go on, I gotta take this. It'll only be a sec," he told her, nodding her on to the bathroom when he saw it was from Barney.

"Hey, Clint, sorry for callin' so late, but I wanted to grab you before you went to sleep."

"Nah, it's fine. What'd you want?"

"I just—it's comin' up, and I was thinkin'…I dunno. I think you should go."

Clint blinked, not at all prepared to have his parent's deaths thrown at him just them. He was glad Barney hadn't said 'anniversary', though. That implied something good, something worth remembering, not…death. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came.

"…Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"…are you going to answer?" He could practically feel Barney's stress over the phone, could feel him ramping up to deal with whatever Clint started shouting, but it just seemed to split around Clint. It was like there was so much going on in Clint's head that he just refused to interpret any of it, leaving him with a blank sort of calm.

"I dunno," he said honestly, trying to detangle whatever it was he was feeling. He knew what Barney was asking, he yet again wanted Clint to go see their graves. But he didn't want to. Things were _just_ starting to even out, he didn't want to have to go face…_that._

_ I don't wanna not know you 'cause a Dad._

"I dunno, Barney. I just…I'll see, okay? No promises, but…"

"But you'll think about it." The hope in Barney's voice hurt almost more than the disappointment had.

"Yeah, sure."  
"Okay."

"Alright."

"Uhm, well, then g'bye."

"Bye, Barney. Kiss Sharon for me, or somethin'."

"Okay," Barney chuckled, then hung up.

Clint stood in the kitchenette for a second, staring at his phone. Was he really going to consider it?

He shook himself, and then set his phone down on the counter. He walked into the bathroom, returning the smile Natasha gave him. She looked tired. He gestured toward the shower, then noticed that she was still wearing her underwear. In response, her smile became a little bit more cheeky, and she climbed into the shower.

Clint chuckled to himself, then finished getting undressed. He was beside her in a second, adjusting the water temperature so that it wasn't searing. The steam seemed to coat his lungs, an honest, comforting sort of feeling.

He kissed Natasha, and it felt like all of the weeks he had spent _not_ kissing her were catching up with him. He kissed her harder, mouth open and drinking her in more than the water all over them. Her hands were on his shoulders, his hair, as if she were feeling him for the first time. He teased the back of her bra, making her groan in annoyance and clench her hands in his hair to tell him to _hurry up._ He grinned as she pulled his head back and kissed his throat as he undid her bra, then dropped it, more intent on running his hands over every inch of her skin. Natasha braced herself against the wall, and he kissed her and he kissed her and he kissed her and then she was suddenly on the ground.

Clint blinked as he stared down at her, huddled and wide eyed in the corner of the shower. Her hand was braced against the wall and his hip, and she blinked hard, clearly trying to get her eyes to focus. Then she glanced up at him, like this was all part of her plan, like she had meant to get down on her knees for him.

"Natasha?" he asked, not liking the feeling rising in his throat, "Natasha, _hey,_ are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, and then she laughed, a thin, shaky, terrified thing. He watched at her for a moment, then took hold of her hand. He made to help her up, but Natasha bit her cheek and turned away from him, ashamed.

He watched her for a long second, noticed the way she closed her eyes and grimaced and looked so _awful,_ like she despised herself for not being able to move without falling over. He ran a hand over his face, then crouched down beside her. The water splashed over their shoulders, and she wiped it off of her face and turned to face the wall.

"Can you stand?"

She turned toward him the least little bit, stealing a glance out of the corner of her eye. Natasha chewed her lip, then looked down.

"I…don't know. Not without help."

Clint nodded, and looked at the floor of the shower.

"When did you eat last?"

"Not long before I came here."

He pursed his lips, then asked, "_What_ did you eat last?"

"An apple."

"And before that?"

"…A muffin. For breakfast."

Clint hissed out a sigh, because it was _almost ten,_ then he noticed the way she closed her eyes and drew back on herself, fists clenched and mouth tight and whole body _scared_, because she thought he was angry and he was right there, in her face. He held his breath, not letting himself think about why that hurt so much.

"We're going to get out of the shower now, okay?" he asked, and she gave a slight nod. He set one hand on her elbow, one on her waist, and slowly guided her to her feet. Natasha flinched when he opened the curtain, and for a moment he was worried she might fall again, but then he realized it was just from the cold.

He helped her out of the shower, and handed her a towel. She shook as she wrapped it around herself, and she looked so small and pathetic, so helpless. He grabbed another towel and began helping her to dry off, and even had a bunch of her hair in the towel before he thought about it. Clint let her hair go, then put the towel on her shoulders. He kept his hands there for a moment, staring her in the face and trying to find some sort of answer there. There was fear and worry and embarrassment and _exhaustion_ and gratitude that he absolutely did not deserve.

Clint turned off the water, and got himself a towel.

"You should…you should go dry off," he said. Natasha nodded, and then she was gone. He stood there for a moment, then dried himself off and pulled on his pants. He picked up her clothes and set her bra to dry, hands feeling clumsy and out of place. He ran the towel over his hair again, then made himself leave the bathroom. Natasha was leaning against the table, dried off, wrapped up in the towel, and looking very, very lost. Her gaze was empty when she turned here eyes toward him.

"If you wanna get out of those, we can probably get them dry before morning."

Natasha glanced down at herself, then nodded. He moved to the kitchen before she pulled her underwear off.

By the time she had hung her underwear up to dry in the bathroom and come back, Clint had set out the leftovers from his dinner on the table.

"All I've got is some left over Thai, but it should do. Here," he said, handing her a fork. Natasha took it, and turned her attention back to the food. It was like she didn't understand what she was looking at. It was only after he had picked up a piece of chicken with his fingers and popped it into his mouth that she started to eat. She watched him as she ate, eyes still so tired and empty. He hated seeing her like this, seeing her almost _broken._ What Clint wanted to do was to get up and grab her into a hug, but at this point, he was a little afraid she might fall apart in his arms.

When he couldn't stand watching her any longer, he got up and grabbed her a cup of water.

"This might help it go down easier," he said, and she gave him a soft thank you.

They picked off the rest of the food, Clint offering his help only when Natasha seemed to stall out. When it was all done, he offered to clean up. She nodded, and stumbled to the bathroom. He heard the tap run as he threw the containers in the trash, and then the sound of Natasha pulling back the covers and climbing into bed. By the time he walked over to the bed, she was properly settled, the blankets almost over her head.

He spared a second to take his pants off, then he climbed in beside her. He could feel the no man's land between them, large and intimidating and begging to be filled. But after what he had just seen, he didn't want to touch Natasha, he didn't want to strain her and make her think that she had to _perform_ for him. He just wanted her to rest. Then Clint closed his eyes, and rolled over to face her. He draped his arm over her side, and he ran his thumb over her bare hip. He liked the way she relaxed into him.

_(you're so young)_

Clint found himself on a plane, flying to Iowa, not two weeks later. It wasn't quite on the day of his parents' deaths, but it was close enough and that was as good as he was getting. Yet again, Clint didn't know why he did it. But there was something in his stomach that was whispering that this was a _good_ thing, that he was supposed to doing it. That was probably why his heart felt like it was going to break his ribs and his fingers wouldn't stop thrumming and he basically felt like he was going to punch through the head rest in front of him.

It was colder there than in New York, ice having already settled on the ground for the rest of the year. He did _not_ regret moving to New York, not when the cold was driving through his over coat and making each breath feel like a knife in his throat. But he was there, and it was not for the sake of a several hundred dollar display of cowardice. He was going to go through with it.

Clint called a cab to drive him to the cemetery. He was there to do one thing, and one thing only, and it was that simple check list that kept him from turning that cab around and running back to the East Coast. If the cab driver thought it weird that he was quietly having an early midlife crisis in the back seat, he was polite enough not to comment.

The cemetery had a small flower shop next to the main office, so Clint bought a bouquet and then trudged through the snow to where he remembered the graves to be. He didn't bother to scoop back the snow when he reached the gravestones to see the message carved beneath his parent's names. _Mother. Father._ That was what they had been, two people who were supposed to take care of their two boys. Everyone had been too kind or too emotionally damaged to write a more indepth version of the truth on them.

Clint stared at the stones, which looked nearly black against the snow. There were crosses at the top. Clint hadn't remembered that.

He swallowed and turned away from the wind, feeling the snow soak through the bottom of his pants. He leaned over, and set the flowers on his mother's grave. They were lilies, bright orange and almost so beautiful it hurt. Clint considered for a moment, then crouched down beside her.

"I miss ya, Ma," he said, and for once, he didn't care about the redneck tilt to his voice, or the lump in his throat, or the fact that he was fairly certain he was going to have tears frozen to his eyelashes before got out of the freakin' cold. "I never thought I'd say it, and I never thought I'd be in a place where I wouldn't want to, but I miss you. I—I wish you could have seen somethin' a little bit better than you got. Only got to see me as a failure and a screw up. If you'd a stuck around a little longer, might've even seen me be a success and a screw up."

He gave a tight laugh, and brushed some of the snow from the engraved letters. It almost felt like someone touching his hand.

Clint stood up and brushed some snow from his coat, swallowing hard. He glanced at his father's grave, then walked back to the cab. The driver didn't even raise an eyebrow when he said to go back to the airport.

"You got people here?" the cabbie asked, kindly cranking the heat up to high.

"Yeah."

"Must a loved them a lot, to come down just to see them."

"Sure," Clint said, looking out the other window.

_(and you don't love your girlfriend)_

When Clint opened the door to Natasha's knock, he smiled at her instinctively. It felt like she punched it off when he saw her, though. Then again, _she_ was the one that looked like she had been punched. And yet, she was smiling, like she was supposed to.

"Natasha."

She raised her eyebrows at him in question, then he remembered that it was snowing and let her in. He stared at her as she walked in.

"What happened?"

_She's asked you this before._

Natasha pressed her lips into a tight line, composing herself as she said _nothing_ and dropped a dazzling smile.

"Natasha. What—is—_wrong?_" Natasha's expression hardened a little, then, and again she said, "Nothing." He clenched his teeth.

"Fine," he practically snarled, and sat in the chair. She sat on the arm rest, waiting, tempting him. Clint pressed his lips into a tight line, but then let himself put his hand on the inside of her calf. He wished she could feel some version of comfort through his skin. Natasha took that as some sort of acceptance, because then she moved as if to perch on his lap as usual.

Clint pulled his hand away, glaring at her thigh. He could feel her staring at him, but after a moment she sat back down. After a moment, he put his hand back. Natasha looked away from him.

"Why won't you tell me?" he asked, when he couldn't bear to feel the weight of silence anymore.

"There's nothing to tell, nothing happened. It's fine, I'm fine," she said, the words hurried and so, so empty. The thoughts in her head, though, were churning and angry, staggering around the room and staying stubbornly out of his reach. Clint looked at her, and as if magnetized, she snapped her eyes to meet him. She grit her teeth.

He caught something desperate in her eyes, and then she was kissing him, frantic and scared and so not _Natasha_. Or maybe it was, maybe _this_ was the girl he had thought he knew so well, the one that had shown her face in dingy bathrooms when she trusted him with her secrets and her health.

Natasha slid into his lap, kissing him so hard now, hands clenched in the front of his shirt, mouth grating against his in a hopeless plea. She braced her hands on his head, touch aggressive and fragile and so, so afraid.

Clint kissed her back, because, _yes, _a part of him wanted to stop this, to stop having to bother with actually caring, but then he found himself pulling back. Natasha tilted her head down, though whether to avoid meeting his eyes or hide her face, he wasn't sure. He looked away, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

She straightened, letting go of his shirt. He was about to say something when she got to her feet, falling back a step and smearing her lipstick off with the back of her hand.

Natasha walked into the kitchenette, studiously ignoring him as she found a cup and filled it with water. The words that neither of them dared say clattered around the room, making a lot of noise for silence.

After a moment, Clint dragged in a breath.

"Why, Natasha?"

She flinched and looked at him, and said, "Why what?"

He gave something close to a chuckle, and looked at the ceiling.

"Why…why do you lie to me?"

"I don't lie," she said, the words tripping into existence before she seemed to think about it. She blinked, as if registering what she said.

"You lie about being fine, about not needing help," he said, working very, very hard not to snap. "You never, not _once_, admit that you need help, Natasha, and I don't—what can't you tell me? What is _too horrible_ for me to know?"

Natasha glared at him then, _angry_ now, expression made so much worse by the bruises he could just barely see under her eye and on the corner of her mouth. Her expression was all venom and ice, demanding _how **dare** you_ and making his skin burn.

She had asked the same thing, not too long ago, and he lied almost every time. And yet here he was, demanding all of that and more from her. Clint clenched his jaw, anger at himself growing.

He shook his head, rubbed his face, then stood up.

"Alright. Don't tell me, then," he told her, then walked out the door.

He walked around for a while, first to outpace the anger that fogged up the air around him, and then to give himself time to think of a plan. He didn't want to go back there, didn't want to have to look at Natasha and the fact that she was slowly dying inside. But he also didn't want to leave her. He wanted to sit down and hold her in a way that didn't hurt her, but also made her understand that he _cared_, he wanted to stroke her hair and whisper all sorts of comforts and promises that he would do his best to fulfill.

Clint stopped by a convenience store to grab something to stifle the jangling in his stomach that he was fairly certain wasn't hunger, then paused when he saw the drinks in the coolers. On complete impulse, Clint pulled out a container of orange juice. It was the only thing he bought.

When he returned to the motel, the light was off in his room. A moment of worry went through him, but then he opened the door and saw Natasha curled up in bed. She had turned off the light. She had stayed.

The relief that went through him was intense and pathetic and wonderful.

He set the orange juice down on the counter, put the money underneath, and a sticky note on top. He considered for a moment, wondering if he should just leave, but then he looked over at her. He couldn't leave. Clint pulled off his shirt, shoes, and pants, then got in beside her. She was in her underwear, as usual, and Clint had to clench his hands to keep himself from lifting the covers to check just how far the damage went. He closed his eyes and dragged in a breath, then looked at her again. Clint reached over and ran a hand over her hair, wishing he could kiss her better.

The next morning, he felt Natasha next to him, awake and worried, but staying there, waiting for him. He got up, got dressed, then left. He had never wanted to say good-bye as much as he had then, but he also had never wanted to see her hurt again.

* * *

_AN Ugh, that last scene is sooooooo very important to me. Despite all of his many flaws, Clint is a rather self-righteous person, and when he feels that he is doing something right, there is absolutely no doubt in his mind that everything should fall in line with what he wants. And yet, having Natasha act as a direct mirror to himself in this situation is fairly jarring, because he is having to face all of that ugliness he was so desperate pretending didn't exist. That's a hard thing for him to deal with, especially when trying to change everything else about himself._


	5. part five

_AN Well, well, well, here we are. I have loved writing this, I adore Clint and delving into all of his drama is THE BEST. Hopefully this story, and especially this chapter, offer some insight into Clint's actions, so that he's not such an enigmatic figure within _**eyes blue like your ice cold heart.**

_If you have any questions or comments, do be sure to talk to me! I have so much built up on this subject that didn't fit within the story that I would love to share :)_

Warnings: Language, mentions of domestic abuse

* * *

_(and you don't love your girlfriend)_

It was late when he heard the knock on his door. Clint checked his watch as he stood up, frowning when he saw it was nearly one. Who would need_him_at one in the morning?

Imagining eminent horror stories from neighbors about burning houses, angry drunk exes, and car crashes, Clint walked to the door. He opened it, and instead of the panic stricken faces of one of his neighbors, he saw Natasha.

He blinked at her. She looked worse than she had before. She looked _scared, _scared and nervous and, of course, she was hurt. Her lip had been reopened, and there were some new bruises on her face.

"Natasha," he said, and he wondered if he sounded as heartbroken as he felt. She opened her mouth to respond, and gave a few vague gestures, but nothing really came out. He finally noticed a large garbage bag in her hand, and he had the horrible impression that it held all of her possessions.

She met his eyes, though, and the open _pleading _she was doing probably hurt him more than seeing the injuries on her face. She may have been roughed up on the outside, but on the inside, Natasha was only half a step away from _broken._

"Come in," he grunted, moving back for her to step inside. She came in, glancing around at his house like it might eat her. Clint closed the door, and she glanced back at him. He wanted to make some joke about it being alright with him, but then he caught sight of the bruise on her jaw, and he stayed quiet. His thought was only reaffirmed when she pulled away from him as he walked by.

Clint walked to the laundry room, and grabbed a towel for her, wishing he had something a little bit more. There were the dark edges of a footprint on the carpet when he returned with the towel in hand, like she had tried following him, but thought better of it. He tossed the towel to her, and she caught it with the hand not clenched tight around the garbage bag. She hesitated a moment, then set down her bag and pulled off her coat. She looked so, so small standing there.

She twisted some of the water out of her hair, and then settled the towel around her shoulders like a cape. Her eyes were focused somewhere on the far wall.

"What happened?" he asked, not wanting to know, but also needing to. She jumped at his voice, and then looked down at herself, as if just remembering where she was.

Natasha shook her head, and chewed on her lip.

"What the hell happened?" he grit out, because _this _was not the time for her to tuck her life away, this was not when she got to hold back secrets and give a smile of broken glass and tear drops, because she had come to him and she needed _help._

Natasha tensed at his words, but then stole a look at him. She swallowed, then looked away at the couch. Her mouth was an unhappy line, and he could see the way her eyebrows were crunching down, and her expression was just generally collapsing on itself.

Clint wasn't surprised when she broke into tears, but he really, _really _wished she hadn't. He walked over and finally grabbed her into a hug that he had been wanting to give her for a long, long time now. He held her tight, tighter than he probably should have, but the soft gasp of shock Natasha gave at the touch told him that this was _exactly _was she needed, so he kept his grip firm as she turned her face into his shirt and just _sobbed._

"It's alright, Natasha, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright," he told her, stroking her hair in an attempt to calm her down. "You're safe here, you're okay. I'm here, I'm here, it's alright…"

Clint wasn't really sure what he was doing, because he didn't really_ do _comfort, not for himself, not for other people. But he was holding a woman in his arms that had absolutely nothing left in the world, and nowhere else to go, so he pressed his lips to the top of her head, and then rested his chin against it, as if to lock the kiss in. Her hands were clenched in his shirt, and he could feel her tears soaking through the fabric, but he honestly didn't know when she had last cried, and he sincerely doubted it had been with someone there to help soothe her out of her tears.

After a while, Natasha stopped crying, and pulled her face from his chest. She stared at the marks she had left on his shirt, brow crinkling like she had done something wrong, so he quickly took her mind off of it by suggesting that she take a shower to warm up. The words stumbled over themselves, jerky and not very clear, but he hadn't realized there was such a lump in his throat and how hard it was to breathe. Natasha hesitated for a beat, then nodded. She turned to her bag and pulled some things out of it, and Clint tried very, very hard not to sit down and cry himself, because that really was all she had.

Natasha bent over to take off her shoes, then paused, noticing the dirt she had tracked in.

"Oh, I should…" she began, but Clint waved her off, picking up her towel and coat.

"No, it's fine, I got it. You go get warm. Then get to bed, you look like you need it."

Natasha paused once more, then met his eyes. She looked exhausted, eyes red from crying, and the bruises on her facing standing out, now that she wasn't half frozen. Clint wanted to reach out and touch her face, to reassure her one last time, or to kiss her soft and sweet on the parts of her skin that didn't seem to be discolored and aching, but he kept himself in check. She nodded after a moment, then shuffled toward the stairs.

He glanced back at her things, and then hung up her coat on the rack, and carried the towel back to the laundry room. He felt very, very tired as he draped the towel over the dryer, and thumbed through one of the cabinets for carpet cleaner. Clint could hear Natasha moving around upstairs, finding his room and turning on the shower. The quiet shush of water through the pipes was almost comforting as he turned back the shoe print on the carpet.

He had asked her what happened, but it was all damnably obvious. The Landlord had kicked her out. He had beaten her first, and then he had thrown her out into thirty degree weather. Clint just wanted to know _why._

He stared at the damp spot on the carpet, wondering what he was going to do with Natasha. As simple as it sounded, he knew there was a _lot _more to it, more than giving her food and place to sleep. She needed help desperately, and thankfully she had realized it enough to go to him, rather than go back to the streets. Clint didn't doubt that he could take care of her, provide the food and shelter and company that she needed, but he had no idea if he could _take care _of her. He hadn't even been able to make it work with Miranda, and she had been a fully functional, self-sufficient woman with a job, a home, and more than a garbage bag to her name! How could he help _Natasha _back to her feet, when he was barely staying on his own?

_Stop it, _he told himself, _stop it, she is here and she needs your help and dammit, you are going to give it to her whether you like it or not. You **asked** for this._

Clint straightened, and put the cleaner away. He glanced over at her garbage bag when he came back, little flakes of snow still clinging to the plastic in some spots. He stopped before it, some vague notion forming in his head about grabbing a blanket or something familiar for her, but then again, she might not want the reminder of what she had just been ripped out of. Clint paused with his hand inside the bag, frowning at the problem before he realized that there were actually _two _bags, one inside of the other.

He pulled back the outer bag, because it seemed a little strange that she would have had the thought or the time to layer her bag when being forcefully evicted from her home. Sure enough, there was something at the bottom, underneath the bag containing the majority of her things.

Sticky notes, he realized. All sorts, each one loose and crinkled from wear. There were little ones, big ones, some the typical light yellow color, others intense shades of neon. And each one of them was blank, pulled off the pad without a single word or mark on them.

They were all the ones he had left behind.

Clint sat back on his heels, the breath slowly seeping out of him. The sticky notes he had left, every morning after he had hired her, she had collected them all.

He ran his hands through his hair, strangely shocked by the revelation. He wasn't sure _why _he was so bothered, but he was and he couldn't shake the feeling. It was like there was a rock in his mouth, and he couldn't spit it out and couldn't swallow it, so it just sat on his tongue, heavy and disconcerting.

Clint stood back up, turning away from the bag and all that it implied. He busied himself in the kitchen for a few moments, straightening the counter, transferring some dishes from the sink to the dishwasher, but then he realized he really didn't have anything left to stall himself with. He quietly made sure the door was locked, turned off all the lights downstairs, and then went up to his room.

Clint wasn't sure what he expected when he reached the landing, but when he stood in his doorway and stared at the dark room, he had the sudden and terrifying impression that it was all a lie, that he had imagined Natasha knocking on his door and sobbing into his chest and using his shower, that he had dreamt it all up and now he was facing a cold and almost even more tragic reality of her not being there. Then he saw the blankets on his bed shift, and he let out a slow breath, because there she was, sulky red hair just visible on one of his pillows. Natasha actually _in his bed _was a very, very strange thought to him just then.

He didn't say anything as he walked in. Natasha stayed quiet as well, though he couldn't tell if she had fallen asleep or not. It would have been better for her if she had, but he had a feeling that she would find it difficult to calm down.

He walked over to the bed, completely forgoing the thought of stripping down to his underwear like he normally would, and pulled back the covers. Natasha was tense beside him, clearly waiting for his next move. Clint closed his eyes, hating the fact that she did not trust him to lay beside her and not do a thing. Not because it was her fault, but because someone had _made _her that way.

Natasha seemed to relax ever so slightly, and Clint realized that she too had stayed in her day clothes. Then again, he wasn't really sure if she had anything like pajamas.

"I didn't know that you'd kept them," he said after a moment. "Or rather, I didn't think you'd keep them. The sticky notes, I mean."

Clint wasn't sure where the words had come from, but they had been twisting around his head, and then suddenly they were hanging in the air, hoping for a response.

"I wasn't ever sure you'd keep leaving them," she whispered back. The tone of her voice was small and worried, but not hostile, not on edge. Clint took that as an invitation, and rolled over to settle his arm around her side.

"Of course I would," he told her, not really understanding _why_, but knowing deep down in his bones that he wouldn't quit, not after seeing them collected religiously in her garbage bag.

His face was in his hair, and she was pressed against his body, and they were lying in bed together. It was a scene that had happened so many times, under so many different circumstances. But this time, he hadn't so much as kissed her, and both of their clothes were still on, and it was snowing outside and he was holding her so, so close because he needed to make sure that she was real and had chosen to come stay beside him and to keep her nice and safe and warm.

It was odd. She had been the one to come to him for comfort, now, and he had taken care of her to the best of his ability, and she then paid him with trust. It was odd, but Clint would never have said he didn't absolutely love every second of it.

_(__and you don't love your girlfriend)_

Clint woke up before Natasha. He thought briefly about holding her a little tighter and taking a deep breath and not doing anything, but then Clint found himself carefully getting out of bed. He grimaced at the cold, and made sure that there were plenty of blankets over Natasha before he left the room.

He didn't really have a clear thought of what he was going to do when he reached downstairs, but after he stalled long enough to turn on the heater, Clint found himself just moving. He searched through the contents of his kitchen, sorting out the ingredients for pancakes. He couldn't actually _remember _the last time he had made pancakes, but Natasha looked like she hadn't had a proper breakfast in _years, _so he mixed the batter and heated up a skillet.

If Clint was going to be honest with himself, he was downstairs making pancakes because he was absolutely terrified of the thought of having to be there when Natasha woke up, because that seemed like the end of a sentence he wasn't all that certain about. Natasha had come to him. She had picked herself up from whatever had happened, and she had thought '_Clint', _and she had gone and he had let her in and he had no idea what to do next. Clint liked knowing what he was going to do next, because then at least he had at least some kind of a handle on just what sort of shit he was going to have to deal with next.

Was she going to stay there? Was that what she was expecting? Or did she want him to wrap her up, give her some advice, and then set her off at some hotel and help long distance? He didn't want to do that. He wanted to have her right there, to hold her hand and to look her in the face as he told her that things were going to be alright and that they would work through it.

He had assumed that the Landlord had kicked her out, but why? What had she done that had been so horrible? Was any of her old life going to trail back into this new one?

Clint paused, spatula hovering over the pan.

Old life._Was _it her old life? Did Natasha still intend to go out onto the streets and let anyone up her skirt that bothered to pay? No, that wouldn't happen, Clint wouldn't let her.

Clint clenched his teeth, and flipped the pancakes in the skillet. _He wouldn't let her. _He didn't have that kind of right, over anyone. He couldn't _make _her stop, but he would do everything to keep her from having to go back. And he was fairly certain that she had despised her occupation with every segment of her being, but that may have just been over the horrendous circumstances surrounding it.

He just—he wanted her happy. He wanted her safe. He wanted her there with him.

Upstairs, Clint heard Natasha get out of bed and shift around. A few moments later, she was coming down the stairs, footsteps quiet and uncertain. He looked over at her and nodded. She looked tired, but definitely better than last night. Her bruises were a little more stark.

She sat down at the counter, and the air suddenly felt stagnant and oppressive against his skin.

"Can you get some plates?" he asked, looking at her again. She started, then gave a small nod. He directed her to the correct cabinet for the plates, and then silverware. He finished the pancakes while she laid the place settings. The air was busy now, but Clint realized it was that thick silence between them that was so awful.

"It's something my ma did," he said, the words just popping out, but they seemed to fit. "She'd make me 'n my brother pancakes when we were sick, or if there was storm or something. She put all sorts a crap in it, bananas and chocolate chips and stuff. Hope you don't mind just plain old pancakes," he tacked on, cutting himself off before he added that she only made pancakes when his father had been out of the house, or too hungover to come downstairs. The smile she had given her two boys as they stuffed their faces felt like a secret, a little word tucked in his heart that he had forgotten when she died.

Clint swallowed, barely hearing Natasha when she said plain pancakes were fine, and told her to sit down.

He grabbed some cups and syrup, then drinks from the fridge. It felt like he was laying out an arsenal, parading all of the options before her. Natasha had a slightly overwhelmed look on her face, but then she caught sight of the orange juice placed just in front of her plate. It was slight, but Clint caught the smile she quickly hid as she picked up the orange juice container, and poured it into her cup.

Breakfast was quiet, a more content thing than it had been before. Questions were still skittering around his head, now most of them aimed at her, but he kept the words latched tightly down. Clint made it through four pancakes and two glasses of orange Julius before he felt full, and noticed that Natasha had stopped eating as well. He glanced at the remaining stack of pancakes, and pushed away the urge to put at least half of them on her plate. Instead, he picked up his plate and carried it to the sink, smiling a little as she followed his lead. They cleaned off their plates, then set them in the bottom of the sink.

Clint washed his hands, then leaned against the counter, watching Natasha. Her expression changed ever so slightly as she read his gaze.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

Natasha gave a shrug, and looked away from him. Clint watched her, and took a deep breath to keep from snapping. She was clearly trying to work the words out, and from the looks of it, each syllable felt like a knife on the way up.

"I…it's the Landlord. He…he'd had enough. He kicked me out, for good." Clint waited a moment, wanting to see if she had anything else to add. When she stayed quiet, he pressed a little further.

"Why was he so mad?"

"It…was kind of my third strike."

"Third strike? Why, what'd you do?"

Natasha swallowed, and stared at the floor. She closed her eyes as if steeling herself, and Clint felt like an icy hand had closed around his stomach. He suddenly didn't want to know anymore.

"First, the sticky notes. He didn't like that I was…making attachments, that I had something he couldn't control."

Clint ran his tongue over his teeth. The sticky notes. She had gotten in trouble because of _sticky notes._

"Third, not…not sleeping with you, and still getting the money. That's not—he's set up a system, and he wants…his girls to follow it."

He frowned at her, processing her words. One and three.

"What was the second strike, Natasha?"

She didn't say anything for a long while, then she looked at him. There was a surrender in those eyes, a white flag waving over the torturous secrets she had been holding onto for so, so long now.

"Second, sleeping with a customer and saying that they didn't need to pay."

"Okay," Clint huffed. He ran a hand through is hair, trying to access the damage. "Okay. Who…no, okay, no. What did this person do? Were they a gang member or something, somebody that might put him in a tight spot, should they come back and demand the same again?"

"Kind of," she hedged. Clint looked at her, not sure he liked the anxiety in her voice. She shifted, running a foot over the other like she would have much rather run away from everything they were saying. He waited, breath feeling strange, caught up in his throat.

"It—it was a loan shark." she admitted, finally looking away from him.

Natasha looked away from him, but Clint felt like she had just leaned over and kicked him in the stomach.

"A loan shark?" The words were hard to even get out of his throat.

"Yes."

"Natasha, what was his name?" They both knew it, but some part of him, some _stupid, _naïve part of him was on its damn _hands and knees_, praying she would not say it.

"Ian Haulders."

He clenched his teeth, not letting himself say anything for a long moment because he was _angry _and it would not end well. But he wasn't just angry with her. He didn't really know what he was angry at, he just knew that this whole thing was _wrong_, and it shouldn't have happened, and yet he knew exactly why it had.

She had slept with _his _loan shark, and said he didn't owe her a dime. She, somehow, had paid for his freedom.

"Why did you do it?" he asked. "_Why _would you take sure a risk? Natasha—he could have—"

He cut himself off, _despising _himself for having even thought of it, but it was such a horrifying reality. She had laid down at the feet of yet another monster, and she closed her eyes and said her bit to save him.

She had risked her _everything _to save _him._

Natasha looked at him then, jaw set and scared but determined to say what she needed to.

"Clint, I—I couldn't—I had to."

"Why? _Why _would you have to go sleep with that _bastard_, what could have _possibly _made you think that was a good idea! You had to have known—"

And then Natasha said the words he had prayed no one else would even _consider_. They didn't match the ones that came out of her mouth, but they were there and they were in his ears and they were making him feel like he was choking. And because he knew what she was professing was a terrible thing, he gave her a second chance, an escape route, an option that didn't end with him using her up and leaving her sad and alone and cold.

"What?"

Natasha took a deep breath, and seemed to make a decision.

"I said, I didn't want to see you hurt anymore. I had to do it, Clint."

"No," he said, because she had chosen _wrong_, he was _not _the person that anyone should be caring about, he was a disgusting mess that couldn't do anything right and she did not deserve that sort of suffering. "No, Natasha, no you did not. How could you even—"

Clint looked away from her, and her hurt, honest expression. He couldn't do this. _She _couldn't do this, she could not settle him into her life and come out whole on the other side, it just did not happen. Because he would fuck up and _ruin _her, like he ruined _everything, _because he himself was a ruined man that could not love properly.

And though it _broke _him, he realized that he could not keep her. As much as he desperately wanted to, as good and true as his intentions were, Clint knew that he was not the person that would be able to hold her so tight and love her so well and make things so much better. Not now, not when he was just barely starting to get fixed himself. He couldn't fix her, and he wasn't even sure if he would be able to help her. He could not, for the sake of her own well being, let Natasha stay. And it would hurt, but she was strong, she was so, so _strong, _she would make it through this, one quick, brutal moment of agony, rather than an age of poison leaking into her soul.

_(and you don't love your girlfriend)_

"It doesn't make sense," he said. His voice sounded dead. "Why would you even do it? Why would you risk your _everything _for me, hm? Is it 'cause if I'm beaten to the grave, I can't be your sweetest customer anymore?"

Natasha stared at him, mouth falling open. She narrowed her eyes, hurt rising up like he had known it would, but he didn't let anything show. He was good at hurting people. He knew how to carry his dead and lash out at the same time.

_"No_," she said, the word quiet, but hitting him with the weight of a box of broken dreams. He clenched his teeth, trying to keep his breathing in check, because he could do this, he could do this, he _had to do this._

"Then why? Why'd you do it, because there _isn't another reason, _Natasha. You are a _smart _woman, you've gotta know that."

Natasha was full on glaring at him now, and the mighty _fury _in her eyes made him want to sit down and put his head in his hands. But he stayed tall, and he reached into his chest and found all of that awful, bitter _viciousness _he had learned when he was young, and pressed it against her lips. All of that horrible truth that he had been running from was crashing into him, and through him, and coming out in his voice and lancing Natasha through the chest.

"You shouldn't have come here. I don't know why—it was a stupid mistake. Natasha, you're a _prostitute, _and I'm just the asshole that kept hiring you when he _really _shouldn't have. Don't you _get _that? I'm not _that guy, _I just pay girls to have sex with me, okay? And since we—"

"I didn't come here to be paid," she hissed, an inhuman edge in her voice now.

Clint pressed his lips together, because he knew for sure how this would end, now. They were both digging their fingers in and drawing blood and leaving nothing unsaid. This was how she had survived, she had carved herself into a wicked blade, something that she could drive into her enemies' chest and then _twist _until they fell to their knees. But Clint was hitting his stride, too, and it was awful and he hated himself, but the words were just coming, now, spilling from his tongue and driving her away, driving her to safety.

"I didn't _come here _to be your little slut, Clint, I came here because I was _scared. _I was so scared I could not think, and so _yes_, I came here, I came here to ask you for help, because I thought you were the one person in my life that didn't want cut me apart and nail me to their wall!"

"Why'd you think that, though, Natasha?" he asked, voice absolute ice, and he saw where it slipped into her skin, making her flinch. "Did you imagine this to be some sort of freakin' _fairy__tale_, where someone—where _I _would swoop down and save you from your own damn decisions?"

Natasha snarled at him, because he had betrayed her, and hurt her, and turned into yet another monster before her eyes. He in turn kept his expression cold, arrogant, a man that wasn't supposed to be touched by _her._

"You were plenty eager to help me the _first _time I had the shit beaten out me," she said, and Clint swallowed, because _this _was what she had been hiding, this was her own monster, the one that held nothing back and tore at the skin with her fingers and nails and teeth. "What, did you realize it would be too much work to actually _care _about some other human being? Or are you just used to looking at me like this, that you've stopped caring? Because, here's a hint, you can't just _turn it off, _Clint. You can't _punish _me because I'm not doing what you want!"

"You knew _exactly _what I wanted, right from the beginning!" Clint flung back, finally yelling now. He had his fists clenched because it was all _true_, but in all the wrong ways. Natasha stood in front of him, though, not cowering like she had in the shower, when she had been terrified what he might do when angry and there in her space. The look she was wearing now said that she _wanted _him to try something, because then she would get on her hands and knees and tear him apart.

"You knew who I was," he accused, flinging the venom in her face, "Some selfish son of a bitch that didn't care about you as a person, you were just a short dress with a pair of tits and nice legs, and I decided, hey, I'm going to fuck her, and that's what I did! You can't just come here and act like _I'm _the one that's changed, not when I've always _done my job._"

And then Natasha did the worst thing that she possibly could have—she didn't say a word. She leaned back, eyes narrowed in condescension and disgust, looking down on him, sizing him up, and saying exactly what she needed to grind him into the dust.

"How dare you," she said. She was quiet now, pulling back in all of her rage and pain and reducing it down, making it hard and sharp and enough to kill. "How _dare _you say that to me, after all of this. You think that because you opened the door and took off my clothes and threw money at me that you're covered? You talked so sweet about _if it was still worth it, _if putting food in my mouth the only way I can was worth going out and nearly _dying _everyday, and yet, when I try to change things, you put your foot on my chest and you kick me back down. How fucking_dare _you."

Clint clenched his teeth, and he thought that he might break, because it was _true_, it was all true and she didn't understand and she couldn't understand and now she most certainly_ wouldn't _understand, but that's what he had _wanted._

Clint shook his head to hide the pain in his chest, and gave a dull, vicious laugh, and told her a little bit more of the truth.

"What were you expecting, Natasha? What did you _actually _think would have happened when you came here, and you threw yourself at the feet of a man that can't make _anything _work right? I can't _just change, _Natasha, I can't magically transform into somebody I'm not, and you should know that!"

"Get away from me," she said. Her voice was low and ragged, and Clint stared at her, not sure what she had said.

"I said _get away from me!_" she screamed, slamming her hands into his chest and shoving past him. Clint watched as she went to the door, and grabbed up the bag of possessions he had so carefully set to the side.

She gave him exactly one look back, and that was the worst thing, of it all. She shot one broken, angry, horrified, _wretched _look that said _you are not what you said you'd be, _and then she slammed shut the door. Clint stared after her, feeling it rattle through is bones.

He gave himself all of three seconds, and then he sank to the floor.

_(and you don't love your girlfriend)_


End file.
